WOMAI'S  ERIEIDSHIP; 


A  STORY  OF  DOMESTIC  LIFE. 


BY 


GRACE  AGUILAB, 

ADTHOE  OF  "HOME  INFLUENOK.^ 


"To  show  us  how  divine  a  thing 
A  woman  may  be  made." 

Wordsworth. 


NEW-YOKK: 
D.    APPLETON    &    COMPANY. 

443    &    445    BEOADWAT. 
1867. 


GIFT 


CONTENTS. 


I.— Friendship  demands  Equality  of  Station.— Trae  Affection  devoid 

of  Selfishness ' 

II.— The  Leslie  Family.— A  Mystery.— Love  of  Countiy   effected  by 

Associations 13 

III.— Effects  of  Fashionable  Training.— The  Story  opens  ....  18 

IV.— Ida.— Sympathy.— Friendship  formed 24 

v.— A  Morning  at  St.  John's 31 

VI.— Good  News.— Thoughts  of  the  Future.— Woman's  influence  over 

Woman , ^^ 

Vn.— Home  Duties.— An  anxious  Thought.— The  Ball  Dress     ...  43 

VIII.— A  Surprise  for  Florence.— The  Gift 48 

IX. — An  Introduction.— Principle  trimnphs  over  Inclination   ...  53 

X.— Separation.— The  Cloud  gathers.- A  Character  to  be  remembered  60 

XI.— Walter.— A  Proposal.— A  Father's  Death-bed 66 

Xn.— Filial  Love.— Walter  seeks  Employment.— Ability  and  Interest     .  73 
Xni.— Estrangement  and  Neglect. — Woodlands. — Parting  Words  remem- 
bered.—Flora         79 

XIV.— The  Letter  abstracted,  and  its  Substitute.— Flora  again   ...  86 

XV.— Suspense.— Brother  and  Sister.— Confidence 91 

XVI.— Truth  and  Falsehood 98 

XVII.— The  Cloud  bm-sts 104 

XVUI.— A  solid  English  Education.— Minie.— Old  Friends.- Emily  Mel- 
ford's  Promise        .       .  ^ 1 10 

N;    XIX.— Florence  a  Governess.— Walter  is  ill.— Trials.— A  Message      .        .  llfl 
XX.— IMrs.Russel.— Hasty  Conclusions.-Injnstice.-Dismissal.-Grief.— 

A  Mother's  Love 123 

XXL— Genius.— The  Manuscript 129 

XXn.— A  kind  Friend.— The  Publisher.— The  Physician      .       .        .        .133 

XXni.— The  Jross  and  Chain.— Is  there  no  hope  ?         .                ...  137 

XXIV.— The  Poet's  Home.— He  Dies •  141 

XXV.— The  Return  to  England.— A  Happy  Wife.— The  Family  Meeting  146 

XXVL— Excuses  for  Indolence.— The  Friend  seeks  her  Friend     ...  159 


f7i8Cil53 


8  ♦contents 

CHA.PTER  FjkOn 

XXVII.— To  prove  Innocence  and  relieve  Suflering  ia  not  a  needless 

exertion 157 

XXVIII.— Alfred  Melford  exerts  himself.— Lady  Mary  alters  her  opinion. 

— The  unknown  Musician IGl 

XXIX.— Found  at  last IGg^ 

XXX.— Misconceptions    explained.— Florence    and  Ida  friends  once 

more 173 

XXXI.— The  Scene  is  changed.— Lady  Ida's  Plan.- The  Secret  still        .  179 

XXXn.— The  Heart's  Awakening         .        ,       „ 185 

XXXni.— Frank  Howard.— Yearnings  for  Affection.— The  Gift  restored  .  190 

XXXIV.— The  Portrait  and  its  Counterpart 194 

XXXV.— Pride  of  Birth.— The  Summons.— Death  of  Mrs.  Leslie       .        .  203 

XXXVI.— The  Papers.— The  Bequest     ....  ...  208 

XXXVII.— Injuiy  forgiven 216 

XXXVm.— Is  it  love  ?— The  Library.— The  Decision.— Tell  me  this  weighty 

Grief 221 

XXXIX.— Despair.— The  Friend  trusted 229 

XL.— airs.  Leslie's  Manuscript.— The  Mystery  solved  ....  233 

XLL— Thinking  what  the  World  will  say.— A  strange  ciixumstance    .  247 

XLII. — Not  alone. — Consolation  in  Friendship 254 

XLHI.- Ronald  Elliott.— The  true  Kefuge 261 

XLIV.— The  Family  Tour 266 

XLV.— An  Accident  and  its  effect 272 

XL VI.— A  Morning  Walk.— True  Love.— Difficulties        .        .        .        .278 

XL VII.— All  for  the  best,  as  the  end  will  prove 287 

VLVm.— The  Hour  of  Trial 295 

XLIX.— Lord  Glenvylle.— The  Sacrifice 301 

L. — Frank  and  Minie  happy 308 

LI.— The  Deed  of  Gift 314 

LII.— On  the  Sea.— To  Italy.— Fvesignation.— A  cheering  ray       .       .  320 

LIU.— Returning  Health.— The  Casket  found  .       .....  330 

LIV.— Remorse 338 

?V-*Pn;virieBcetooU 348 


WOMAN'S  FEIENDSHIP, 


CHAPTER  I. 

TRIENDSHIP  DEMANDS  EQUALITY   OF  STATION. — IP.UE   AFFECTION 
DEVOID  OF  SELFISHNESS. 

"  Beware,  dear  Florence  ;  I  fear  this  warm  attachmen- 
must  end  in  disappointment,  fully  as  I  can  sympathize  in 
its  present  happiness,"  was  the  warning  address  of  Mrs. 
Leslie  to  an  animated  girl,  who,  on  the  receipt  of  a  note 
and  its  rapid  perusal,  had  hounded  towards  her  mother 
with  an  exclamation  of  irrepressible  joy. 

"  Disappointment,  dearest  mother  I  How  can  that  he  ?" 
was  her  eager  reply. 

"  Because  friendship,  even  more  than  love,  demands 
equahty  of  station.  Friends  cannot  he  to  each  other  what 
they  ought  to  be,  if  the  rank  of  one  party  be  among  the 
nobles  of  the  land,  that  of  the  other  lowly  as  your  own. 

"  And  so  I  told  her,  dear  mother  ;  at  least  so  my  manner 
must  have  said,  for  she  once  called  me  a  silly  girl  to  be  so 
terrified  at  rank,  and  asked  me  if  I  fancied,  because 
'  Lady'  was  prefixed  to  her  name,  it  raised  up  an  im- 
passable barrier  between  Ida  Yilliers  and  Florence  Leshe. 
I  loved  her  from  that  moment." 

"  No  doubt,"  rephed  her  mother,  smiling.  "  Yet,  my 
Florence,  I  wish  the  first  friendsliip  your  warm  heart  had 
formed  had  been  with  some  other  than  its  present  object. 
You  do  not  Imow  how  often  I  have  longed  for  you  to  find 
a  friend  of  your  own  sex,  and  nearly  of  your  own  age,  on 
whom,  to  expend  some  of  those  ever-gushing  afil^ctions  you 
Avish  so  warmly  on  me  and  Minie — " 

"  And  ray  father  and  Walter,  do  I  not  love  them  V 


10  woman's  friendship. 

laiigliinfrly  interrupted  Florence,  kneeling  down  to  caress 
her  mother  as  she  spoke. 

"  Nay,  if  I  must  enumerate  all  Avhom  Florence  loves,  1 
believe  we  must  add  Minie's  kitten  and  Walter's  grey- 
hound, and  all  the  mute  animals  which  come  to  her  for 
protection  and  care,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Leslie  in  the  same 
tone  ;  "  but,  nevertheless,  I  have  longed  for  you  to  find  a 
friend,  because  I  feel  you  stand  almost  alone." 

"  Alone,  mother  I  with  you  and  Minie  ?  How  can  you 
speak  so  ?     Have  I  ever  wished  or  sought  another  ?" 

"  No,  love ;  but  that  is  no  reason  w^hy  your  mother 
shoiild  not  wish  it  for  you.  Minie  is  a  pet,  a  plaything 
for  us  all,  younger  in  looks  and  manner  than  thirteen  years 
may  justify,  and  no  companion  for  your  present  pursuits 
and  opening  pleasures." 

"  But  are  not  you — " 

"  I  cannot  be  to  you  all  I  wish,  my  warm-hearted  girl, 
or  all  your  fancy  pictures  me,"  replied  Mrs.  Leslie,  with 
difficulty  suppressing  emotion  ;  "  confined  as  I  am,  almost 
continually,  to  a  sofa  or  bed  ;  often  incapacitated  from  the 
smallest  exertion,  even  from  hearing  the  gay  laughter  of 
my  children  ;  my  sufferings  are  aggravated  by  the  painful 
thought,  that  now  you  need  female  companionship  and 
sympathy  more  than  ever,  I  cannot  give  them.  A  few 
years  ago  you  were  still  a  child,  and  your  natural  light- 
heartedness  bore  you  up  against  all  that  might  seem  melan- 
choly in  your  home.  But  "vvithin  the  last  year  I  have 
observed  that  my  sufferings  have  too  often  infected  you 
with  more  sadness  than  they  inflict  upon  me  ;  and  con- 
tinually to  watch  vnth  me,  and  to  bear  with  me,  and  think 
for  me,  this  is  no  task  for  you,  my  Florence." 

"  I^  is  so  precious  even  in  its  sorrow,  that  I  would  not 
resign  it  for  any  thing  that  other  friends  might  offer,  dearest 
mother.  It  is  only  the  last  two  years  I  have  been  con- 
scious of  all  I  owe  to  you,  and  all  you  endure,  and  all  the 
trouble  and  sadness  my  Avilfulness  must  often  have  occa- 
sioned you.  And  if  I  have  seemed  more  thoughtful  and 
serious,  it  is  because  I  have  only  now  begun  to  think  and 
feel." 

*'  And  for  that  very  reason,  my  child,  I  have  wished  yan 
to  find  some  friend,  w^hose  affection  and  personal  charactei 


woman's  friendship.  U 

naiglit  sometimes  give  you  more  cheerful  matters  of  medi- 
tation, and  a  happy  change  of  scene.  You  are  only  toe 
prone  to  think  and  feel,  and  might  become  morhidly  sen- 
sitive before  either  of  us  had  imagined  the  danger.  I 
knovi^,  too,  that  there  is  an  age  when  the  young  require 
more  than  their  natural  relatives  whom  to  respect  and 
love ;  they  fancy  it  no  credit  to  be  loved  merely  in  theii 
domestic  circle  ;  they  need  an  interchange  of  sentiment 
and  pursuit,  and  all  their  innocent  recreations  and  graver 
duties  acquire  double  zest  from  being  shared  by  another. 
Sympathy  is  the  magic  charm  of  Hfe  ;  and  a  firiend  will 
both  give  it,  and  feel  it,  and  never  shrink  from  speaking 
truth,  however  painful,  kindly  indeed,  but  faithfully,  and 
will  infuse  and  receive  strength  by  the  mutual  confidence 
of  high  and  reHgious  principle.  Trust  me,  there  are  such 
friends,  my  Florence,  friends  that  v^dll  cling  to  each  other 
through  weal  and  through  woe,  who  will  never  permit 
coldness  oi  distrust  to  creep  in,  and  dull  their  truth ;  aye, 
and  who  will  stand  by,  protecting  and  comforting,  should 
sorrow  or  even  sin  be  the  lot  of  the  one,  and  that  of  the 
other  be  happiness  complete." 

Mis.  Leslie  ceased,  her  voice  becoming  almost  inaudible 
from  emotion  or  exhaustion.  Florence  imagined  the  latter 
cause,  for  their  was  a  deep  flush  on  her  mother's  usually 
pallid  cheek  which  alarmed  and  pained  her,  and  throwing 
her  arms  around  her  neck,  she  begged  her  not  to  talk  too 
much,  dearly  as  she  loved  to  hear  her,  adding  somewhat 
mo'irnfully,  "  You  have  indeed  pictured  true  friendship, 
mother,  and  that  which  I  yearn  for  ;  Lady  Ida  may  be  all 
this  to  me,  but  I  am  too  lowly  in  station  and  in  merit  to 
be  such  to  her  ;  though  I  do  feel  I  could  go  to  the  world's 
end  to  make  her  happier  than  she  is.  Oh,  mother,  if  you 
did  but  know  her  as  I  do."  • 

"  "Without  that  pleasure,  my  dear  child,  I  have  seen 
enough  of  her  to  know  that,  were  her  rank  less  high,  I 
could  not  wish  a  dearer,  truer  friend  for  Florence.  A 
character  like  yours,  almost  too  clinging,  too  afiectionate. 
needs  the  support  of  firmness  and  self-control,  qualities  I 
have  never  seen  possessed  in  a  more  powerful  degree  than 
by  liady  Ida.  But  remember,  my  Florence,  it  is  not  only 
the  disparity  of  rank  which  must  eventually  separate  you 


12  WOMAN    S    FRIENDSHIP. 

Lady  Ida  is  about  to  leave  England  to  reside  in  Italy  for  ac 
indefinite  time." 

"  And  with  my  whole  heart  I  wish  she  could  set  oil 
directly,  lonely  as  I  should  feel,"  exclaimed  Florence 
eagerly. 

"  No  douht  you  do  ;  for  there  nevei:  was  any  selfishness 
in  true  affection,  be  it  friendship  or  love.  Yet  still  I  wish 
there  had  been  no  occasion  for  this  self-renunciation,  and 
that  your  first  friendship  had  not  been  with  one  from  whom 
you  will  so  soon  be  called  upon  to  part." 

"  But  I  would  not  lose  the  pleasure  of  the  present  to 
escape  the  pain  of  the  future.  You  know,  dear  mother,  1 
always  say  I  feel  that  pleasure  and  pain  are  twins  ;  I  nevei 
feel  one  without  the  other,  and  I  should  be  a  poor  miser- 
able being,  without  a  particle  of  spirit  or  animation,  if  1 
were  to  give  up  the  joy  of  the  one  feeling  for  fear  of  the 
suffering  of  the  other." 

There  was  an  indefinable  expression  of  sadness  on  the 
countenance  of  Mrs.  Leslie  as  her  mild  eye  rested  on  the 
beaming  features  of  her  child.  It  was  an  expression  which 
others  might  often  have  remarked,  but  when  observed  by 
Florence  she  believed  it  natural  to  those  beloved  features, 
marking  perhaps  greater  suffering  of  body  than  usual,  and 
in  consequence  calling  forth  increased  tenderness  on  her 
part. 

*  It  is  too  late  to  wish  the  present  pleasure  recalled,  my 
child  ;  continue  to  love  Lady  Ida,  only  remember  there 
must  be  a  cloud  in  your  horizon  of  joy,  that  this  intimacy 
cannot  last,  even  if  she  return  to  England.  Your  respec- 
tive stations  cannot  permit  the  confidence  of  perfect  friend- 
ship, and  my  Florence  has  too  much  of  her  mother's  pride 
10  seek  to  be  a  humhle  friend." 

"  I  could  iffever  be  such  to  Lady  Ida,"  replied  Florence, 
"  for  she  would  cease  to  love  me,  or  at  least  to  feel  the 
same  interest  in  me,  if  I  were.  No,  mother,  no  ;  I  am 
not  ashamed  to  stand  in  a  lower  grade  than  hers.  I  shall 
never  become  one  of  those  despicable  characters,  who,  at- 
tempting to  rise  above,  sink  lower  than  their  natural 
station,  and  thus  expose  themselves  to  laughter  and  cou 
tempt." 


woman's  friendship.  is 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE   LESLIE   FARIILT. — A  MYSTERY. — LOVE  OF  COUNTRY  AFFECTEB 
BY  ASSOCLA.TIONS. 

The  family,  of  whom  the  animated  speaker  of  the  pre- 
ceding chapter  formed  so  engaging  a  part,  consisted  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Leshe  and  their  three  children.  They  had 
resided  for  several  years  in  the  lovely  little  village  of 
Babbicombe,  situated  on  the  south  coast  of  Devonshire. 
Occasional  visits  had  indeed  been  made  to  the  metropohs, 
and  other  parts  of  England ;  but  their  home  was  Devon- 
shire, and  there  had  the  affections  of  Florence  taken  root, 
with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  her  nature.  London  she  ab- 
horred ;  she  fancied  its  denizens  were  cold  and  heartless, 
and  her  min^  had  not  yet  received  the  magic  touch  which 
could  awaken  it  to  those  treasures'  of  art  and  science  which 
the  emporium  of  England's  glory  so  richly  contains.  As 
yet,  the  music  of  the  birds  and  streams,  and  the  deeper 
base  and  varied*  tones  of  Ocean,  were  sweeter  harmonies 
than  the  rarest  talent  of  the  capital.  The  opening  flowers, 
the  diversified  scene  of  hill  and  dale,  the  groups  of  village 
children,  of  sturdy  peasants  and  rustic  girls,  amid  the  fields 
and  orchards,  presented  to  her  fancy  loveher  pictures  and 
more  perfect  forms  than  the  finest  galleries  of  art. 

The  feelings  and  mysteries  of  her  own  loving  heart  and 
simple  min(f,  presented  enough  variety ;  she  needed  not 
change  of  society  to  develop  her  intuitive  perception  of 
character.  Heading  with  avidity  all  that  she  could  obtain 
— history,  poetry,  romance,  all  that  could  delineate  nature 
according  to  the  responses  of  her  own  heart — she  needed 
no  other  recreation.  The  gentle  counsels  of  Mrs,  Leslie 
preserved  her  from  all  that  mawkish  sentiment  and  undue 
prominence  of  romance  which  in  some  dispositions  might 
have  resulted  from  such  indiscriminate  reading  at  an  age 
BO  early.  But  Florence  Leslie  was  no  heroine,  to  take  a 
volume  of  Byron  or  Moore,  and  wander  alone  amid  the 
rocks,  and  fells,   and  woods  of  Babbicombe,  and  weep  in 

2 


14  WOMAN*S    FRIENDSHIP. 

secret,  imagining  herself  to  "be  some  lovelorn  damsel,  and 
pining  for  all  the  fascinating  heroes  of  whom  she  read. 
That  she  was  often  seen  tripping  lightly,  on  an  early 
summer  morning,  or  a  cool  fresh  evening,  down  the  hill 
to  a  favorite  cleft  in  a  rock  almost  hidden  by  luxuriant 
brushwood  which  covered  it,  and  within  hearing  of  the 
sonorous  voice  of  old  Ocean,  and  seen  too  with  a  book  in 
her  hand,  we  pretend  not  to  deny.  But  look  not  aghast, 
ye  votaries  of  Byron  and  Moore,  that  volume  was  gener- 
ally one  of  Felicia  Hemans,  or  Mary  Hovsdtt ;  or,  if  of 
deeper  lore,  WordsAVorth,  Coleridge,  the  stirring  scenes  of 
Scott,  or  the  domestic  pictures  of  Edgeworth,  Mi^ford,  or 
Austin.  Florence  was  not  yet  old  enough,  or  perchance 
wise  enough,  to  appreciate  the  true  poetic  beauties  of 
Lord  Byron's  thrilling  lays,  or  the  sweeter,  softer  music 
of  Moore.  She  was  as  yet  only  sensible  of  that  which 
pleased  her  fancy  and  touched  her  heart ;  and,  therefore, 
to  these  poets  her  gentle  spirit  echoed  no  reply. 

But  Florence  was  not  so  wedded  to  her  books,  an'Sl 
shrubs,  and  flowers,  as  to  eschew  those  pleasures  which 
might  perhaps  appear  somewhat  irrelevant  to  such  a  quiet 
life.  No  one  loved  a  ball  so  well,  no  one  was  so  lightly 
gay  in  all  festivity  and  mirth.  The  morning  hour  might 
.see  her  in  tears  over  a  favorite  book,  the  evenmg  find  her 
the  life  and  centre  of  a  happy  group  of  children,  laughmg, 
dancing,  like  the  yormgest  there. 

Such  she  was  at  the  age  of  fifteen ;  seventeen  years 
found  this  internal  and  external  happiness  somewhat 
clouded  She  became  more  awake  to  outward  thmgs — to 
the  consciousness  of,  and  s}Tnpathy  with,  the  sufferings  of 
a  mother  whom  she  loved  with  no  common  love.  For  the 
last  five  years,  Mrs.  Leslie  had  been  laboring  under  an 
incurable  disease,  which  not  only  always  debiHtated  her 
frame,  producing  a  languor  and  depression  under  which 
many  a  mind  would  have  sunk,  but  exposed  her  at  inter- 
vals to  the  most  excruciating  sufiering,  which  she  would 
yet  bear  so  imcomplainingly,  so  heroically,  that  very  often 
the  damp  drops  on  her  brow,  or  a  faintmg  fit,  would  be 
the  first  sign  that  she  was  endurmg  pam.  A  sudden 
and  violent  disease  would  have  alarmed,  and  thus  excited 
the  attention  even  of  a  child  ;  but  Mrs.  Leshe's  complaint 


woman's  friendship.  15 

had  crept  on  so  silently  and  unsuspsctedly,  her  lang-uoi 
and  weakness  were  so  successfully  combatted,  that  it  was 
not  strange  that  Florence  should  have  failed  to  observe 
them  at  first,  and  that  when  she  did  so,  the  fact  should 
have  dashed  her  glowing  visions  "\vith  a  saddening  shade. 
She  felt  the  pleasures  of  gayety  were  alloyed,  for  she  could 
never  join  in  them  with  her  mother. 

True  the  yearning  for  something  more  to  love  was  not 
strong  enough  to  affect  her  happiness  ;  for,  when  by  Mrs. 
Leshe's  side,  listening  to  her  loved  counsels,  or  caressing 
her  young  and  joyous  sister  Mary,  (or  Minie,  as  she  was 
always  called,)  she  felt  it  not.  It  was  only  when  taking 
a  ramble  too  long  for  Minie,  or  joining  in  the  pleasures  of 
evening  society,  for  which  Minie  was  too  young,  and  which 
were  for  Mrs.  Leslie  too  painful  an  exertion,  that  she  was 
conscious  she  might  be  happier  still. 

There  was  an  ardent  longing  in  Florence  Leslie's  heart 
from  her  earliest  years,  which  most  people  imagined  but 
romantic  folly  engendered  by  indiscriminate  reading,  and 
a  consequent  love  of  adventure,  but  which  (strange  to  say) 
always  appeared  to  cause  Mrs.  Leshe  some  uneasiness. 
All  that  concerned  Italy,  from  ^le  driest  history,  the 
deepest  antiquarian  research,  to  the  Hghtest  poem,  were 
pored  over  with  a  pertinacity,  a  constancy,  which  no  one 
but  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Leslie,  perhaps,  could  comprehend. 
Rogers's  poem  she  committed  to  memory  page  after  page, 
simply  for  recreation ;  and  she  learned  to  draw,  chiefly  in 
order  to  copy  every  print  of  Italy,  modem  or  ancient,  which 
came  before  her. 

"  What  would  I  not  give  to  have  some  claim  on  that 
lovely  land  ?"  she  had  said  one  day,  when  only  twelve 
years  old.  "  It  is  so  foolish  merely  to  love.  Now,  if  I  had 
by  some  strange  chance  been  born  there,  I  might  love  Italy 
as  much  as  I  pleased.  By  the  way,  papa,  where  was  1 
bom?  I  have  asked  mamma  several  times,  and  ther 
Beems  a  fatahty  attending  her  answer,  for  I  do  not  know 
yet." 

Mr.  Leslie's  face  was  shaded  by  his  hand,  and  it  waa 
tvdlight,  or  Florence  must  have  discovered  that  his  coun- 
tenance was  slightly  troubled  ;  but  he  answered  quietly, 
'*  If  you  so  much  wish  to  forswear  poor  old  England  as 


16  woman's  friendship 

your  birthplace,  my  dear  child,  you  have  my  permission  so 
to  do.  For,  ill  truth,  if  to  be  bom  in  a  country  makes  you 
a  cliild  of  the  soil,  you  are  Italian,  having  first  seen  the 
light  about  twenty  miles  from  the  fair  town  whose  name 
you  bear." 

"  Italian  !  really,  truly,  Italian  !  Oh  !  you  dear,  good 
father,  to  tell  me  so.  Now  may  I  love  it  as  much  as  1 
please.  Italy,  dear,  beautiful  Italy  I  I  am  your  0A\ai  child ! 
Mamma,  naughty  mamma  I"  she  continued,  bounding 
to  Mrs.  Leslie,  as  she  entered  the  room,  "  why  did  you 
never  tell  me  I  was  Italian  ?  I  must  go  and  tell  Walter 
and  nurse  ;"  and  away  she  flew,  utterly  unconscious  of  the 
agitation  her  words  had  produced  in  Mrs.  Les^e,  who,  as 
the  door  closed  behind  her,  sank  on  a  chair  by  her  hus- 
band's side  faintly  exclaiming, 

"  Edward,  dearest  Edward  !  what  have  you  told  her  ?" 

"  Nothing,  dearest,  trust  me — nothing  that  can  in  any 
way  disturb  her  serenity  or  happuiess,  or  excice  cue  least 
suspicion  in  herself  or  others,  inimical  to  her  present  or 
future  peace.  I  did  but  tell  her  she  was  born  in  Italy, 
which,  did  she  ever  mingle  with  my  family,  she  would  find 
many  to  confirm  ;  and  you  know  it  is  but  tne  truth,  dearest 
wife." 

Mrs.  Leslie  breathed  more  freely. 

"  I  am  very  weak  and  very  foolish,"  she  said,  after  a 
pause ;  "  but  the  slightest  reference  to  her  oirth  utterly 
unnerves  me.  Dearest  Edward,  there  come  to  me  at 
times  such  horrible  forebodings,  as  if  we  had  scarcely  done 
right  to  act  as  we  have  done ;  and,  yet  it  was  my  own 
request,  my  first  weighty  boon,  and  not  granted  by  you  with- 
out a  painful  struggle  ;  if  ther«^  be  fault — if  evil  come  of  it 
— I  have  brought  it  on  myself.' 

"  Do  not  speak  thus,  my  noble  Mary,"  was  her  hus- 
band's instant  reply,  pressing  her  as  he  spoke  to  his 
bosom.  "  What  fault  can  there  be  in  acting  as  you  did  ? 
What  evil  can  come  from  it  to  dash  your  noble  deed  mth 
woe  ?" 

"  If  she  should  ever  learn — "  faintly  murmured  Mrs. 
Leslie  ;  "  ever  knoAV  the  truth — " 

"It  is  not  likely  she  ever  will,  nor  can  there  be  any 
need  she  should.     Loved,  cherished,  aye,  and  dutiful  and 


woman's   friendship.  17 

affectionate  as  she  is,  God  grant  that  she  may  novel  leave 
our  home  till  she  quits  it  for  a  happier  one." 

"Amen!"  fervently  responded  Mrs.  LesHe  ;  and  what 
further  might  have  passed  between  them  was  checked  by 
the  re-entrance  of  their  child. 

As  Florence  outgrew  the  period  of  childhood,  and 
merged  into  opening  womanhood,  there  was  something 
in  the  intense  blackness  of  her  large,  lustrous  eye,  the 
glossy  tresses  of  her  long,  jet-black  hair,  the  rich  com- 
plexion, which,  though  refined,  and  rendered  peculiarly 
delicate  from  the  effects  of  an  English  climate,  was  cer- 
tainly more  brunette  than  blonde,  that  seemed  in  truth  to 
mark  her  of  more  southern  origin  than  her  mother  and 
little  sister,  between  whom  and  herself  there  was  no 
affinity  of  feature  whatever,  Minie  was  a  lovely  EngHsh 
child,  exquisitely  fair,  with  deep  blue  eyes,  and  clustering 
curls  of  gold,  and  a  voice  that,  even  at  twelve  years  old, 
was  something  so  extraordinary  in  its  compass,  its  flexi- 
bility, that  many  a  professor  might  have  envied  her  tho 
gift. 

Florence  w^as  no  regular  beauty,  but  very  graceful,  with 
a  modest  and  winning  manner,  and  an  ever-vaiying  ex- 
pression of  feature,  which  rendered  her  a  most  loveable 
creature.  Flattery,  Florence  instinctively  abhorred ;  but 
if  any  one  told  her  her  eyes  and  complexion  were  more 
ItaUan  than  English,  she  would  be  as  innocently  delighted 
as  a  child  with  a  new  toy. 

The  other  child  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Leslie  was  a  delicate 
boy.  two  years  the  junior  of  Florence,  between  whom  and 
himself  many  an  animated  discussion  was  wont  to  take 
place,  on  what  they  termed  the  respective  merits  of  their 
respective  countries.  On  one  of  these  occasions,  Florence 
met  the  glance  of  her  mother,  full  of  that  sorrowful 
meaning  which  she  had  only  lately  learned  to  remark, 
and  she  hastened  towards  her  to  cover  her  with  caresses, 
and  ask  if  she  could  do  any  thing  to  alleviate  her  pain. 

"  Mamma  does  not  hke  to  hear  you  abuse  old  England," 
was  "Walter's  laughing  rejoinder,  as  her  mother  assured 
her  she  was  not  suffering. 

*'  I  do  not  abuse  it ;  I  love  it  "Walter ;  but  I  love  Italy 
^lore,  and  mamma  loves  it  too." 

2* 


18  woman's  friendship. 

"  Not  better  than  England,  Florence  ;  not  so  well :  look 
at  her  eyes." 

Florence  did  look,  and  seemed  disappointed ;  Mrs.  ^eshe 
smiled. 

"  I  have  passed  many  happy,  hut  more  sorro^\^ul  days 
in  Italy,  my  dear  children  ;  and,  as  we  generally  love  a 
country  from  association,  I  candidly  ovm  it  would  give  me 
more  pain  than  pleasure  to  visit  those  classic  shores  again," 

"  There  1"  exclaimed  Walter,  triumphantly. 

"It  is  not  likely  I  shall  ever  have  the  happiness  of  seeing 
them ;  so  let  me  love  on,  at  least,"  rejoined  Florence,  in  a 
sorrowful  tone. 


^  ^  CHAPTER  in. 

-V        EFFECTS  OF  FASmONABLE  TRAINING. — THE  STORY  OPENS. 

Among  the  many  visitors  to  the  mild  an^  beautiful  sea- 
port of  Torquay,  was  the  family  of  Lord  Melford,  a  no- 
bleman, with  whom  Mr.  Leslie,  during  his  casual  visits 
to  the  metropolis,  had  become  acquainted,  from  having 
done  Llm  some  essential  service  in  the  way  of  business. 
The  climate  of  Devonshire  having  been  recommended  for 
the  health  of  one  of  his  daughters,  two  successive  winters 
found  the  family  comfortably  domiciled  in  a  noble  resi- 
dence near  the  town,  acknowledged  to  be  second  only  to 
Tor  Abbey  in  importance,  both  for  interior  arrangements, 
and  exterix^r  beauty  ;  its  picturesque  localities  possessing  all 
the  varied  charms  of  hill  and  dale,  wood  and  water,  pecu 
liar  to  Devonshire. 

Lady  Melford  and  her  daughters  made  it  a  point  to 
return  Mr.  Leslie's  services  by  attentions  to  that  gentle- 
man's family.  Florence  was  not  a  bemg  to  be  passed 
unnoticed.  Her  animation,  her  grace,  her  cultivated  mind, 
and  intuitive  refinement,  were  acknowledged  even  by  those 
accustomed  to  the  most  fashionable  society ;  and,  conse- 
quently, she  was  invited  to  St.  John's,  made  much  of  by  the 
Misses  Melford,  dignified  by  the  title  of  the  Honorable  Emily 
Melford's   "  intimate   friend."   caressed  by  the  Viscountess 


woman's  friendship.  1& 

herself,  and  though  not  yet  "cmt,"  admitted  to  all  thcit 
domestic  festivities. 

Still  Florence  retamed  her  indepeiident  spirit,  her  love 
of  her  own  more  humble  home,  untinged  by  a  wash  to  ex- 
change her  unpretending  sphere  for  that  of  her  noble 
friends.  Notwithstanding  that  she  became  an  object  of 
envy  to  many  a  young  lady  in  the  vicinity,  who  thought 
her  pretensions  to  the  notice  of  Lady  Melford  were  quite 
as  good  as  Miss  Leslie's,  not  one  in  the  whole  neighbor- 
hood could  be  found  to  say  that  this  distinction  had 
changed  one  tittle  of  her  character.  She  was  heard  to 
declare  that  it  was  worth  while  to  mix  with  grandeur  and 
be  petted  by  strangers  a  little  while,  as  it  only  made  her 
feel  how  much  dearer  was  her  home,  how  miuch  more 
precious  the  love  of  its  inmates  than  it  had  ever  seemed 
before. 

Though  the  refinement  of  high  rank  and  well-cultivated 
minds,  mingled  with  lighter  accomplishments,  rendered 
the  Honorable  Misses  Melford  far  more  congenial  com- 
panions to  our  young  heroine  than  any  she  had  yet  met 
with,  there  was  still  something  wanting ;  the  mysteiy  of 
sympathy,  that  curious  power  which  links  us  with  kindred 
minds,  which  bids  us  feel  long  before  the  lights  and 
shadows  of  character  can  -be  distinguished,  that  we  have 
met  with  the  rich  blessing  of  a  heart  which  can  under- 
stand us,  and  on  which  our  own  may  lean.  A  fashionable 
education,  and,  in  the  two  elder,  the  gayeties  of  four  or 
five  London  seasons,  had  been  productive  of  their  natural 
consequep.ces,  coldness  and  heartlessness,  which  could  not 
assimilate  with  the  ardent  temperament  of  Florence.  She 
knew  not  their  extent,  for  they  were  always  kind  to  her, 
and  she  did  not  feel  any  restraint  before  them ;  but  she 
intuitively  felt  that  all  her  high  aspirations,  her  exalted 
feelings,  had  better  not  be  spoken,  lor  they  would  not  be 
understood  ;  even  Emily  Melford,  though  but  just  eighteen 
had  not  passed  through  the  ordeal  of  fashionable  training 
entirely  unscathed ;  perhaps,  too,  nature  was  as  much  in 
fault  as  education,  for  she  was  naturally  cold,  though  sc 
independent  both  in  thought  and  action  as  often  to  startle 
FVorence. 

The  first  winter  St.   John's  had  only  been  honored  by 


20  "woman's  friendship. 

the  presence  of  Lady  Melford  and  her  daughters,  occasion 
ally  varied  by  visits  from  the  Viscount,  and  the  Honorable 
Frederick  and  Alfred  Melibrd,  true  specimens  of  joke- 
loving,  amusement-seeking  young  men  of  fasliion,  whose 
gayety  and  good  feehng  excited  the  mirth  and  ready  en- 
joyment of  Florence,  but  nothing  more.  The  second 
winter  brought  an  addition  to  the  family  ;  Emily  had 
alluded  to  a  cousin,  her  mother's  niece,  the  Lady  Ida 
Vilhers,  eight  years  her  senior,  and  spoken  so  rapturously 
of  her  exceeding  grace  and  beauty,  and  richly  gifted  mind, 
that  Florence  thought  these  all-sufficient  food  for  fancy ; 
but  the  tale  connected  with  Lady  Ida  was  such  as  to  mter- 
est  much  colder  hearts  than  hers. 

She  had  lost  her  father  seven  years  previously ;  her 
mother  some  time  before  ;  and  Lady  Ida,  the  last  of  an 
ancient  hne,  was  left  under  the  guardianship  of  Lord 
Melford,  until  the  age  of  twenty-four,  when  full  hberty 
became  her  own.  The  title  of  her  father,  the  ancient 
earldom  of  Edgemere,  had  indeed  gone  to  a  distant  branch, 
but  his  possessions,  with  httle  diminution,  passed  to  his 
daughter,  leaving  her,  in  consequence,  a  wealthy  heiress. 
She  had  certainly  charms  enough,  both  of  person  and 
mind,  to  remove  all  idea  that  she  could  be  sought  merely 
for  fortune  ;  but  whatever  the  cause,  the  richest  and 
proudest  bowed  before  her,  acknowledged  her  surpassmg 
lovelines3,  and  besought,  in  all  the  varieties  of  passion, 
the  honor  of  her  hand.  But  the  heart  of  the  Lady  Ida 
Villiers  had  appeared  to  be  as  cold  as  ice  ;  her  majesty  of 
demeanor  had  never  descended  to  encouragement,  in  even 
the  passing  courtesy  of  the  moment.  All  were  rejected, 
some  with  winning  kindness,  some  with  contemptuous 
scrrn,  according  as  her  quick  and  penetrative  mind  dis- 
covered the  true  feehng,  or  wordly-seeking  pretence  oi 
her  respective  suitors.  In  vain  her  guardians  expos- 
tulated, and  Lord  Melford,  remembering  he  was  an  micle 
also,  took  upon  himself  to  threaten.  The  young  lady  was 
mexorable,  and,  at  length,  the  truth  was  discovered.  Tho 
heart,  which  had  appeared  impregnable,  had,  in  fact  been  car- 
ried by  storm  already  ;  and  Lady  Ida  scrupled  neither  to  deny 
nor  to  conceal  it,  for  its  love  was  returned  ;  she  knew  this 
m  spite  of  the  hopelessness  with  which  it  was  accompanied. 


woman's     miENDSHIP.  2l 

Edmund  St.  Maur  was  the  youngest  branch  of  the  no- 
ble family  whose  name  he  bore.  There  was  a  chance  of 
the  barony  becommg  his,  but  a  chance  far  too  remote  for 
speculation.  Moreover,  he  and  his  widowed  mother 
were  poor  ;  poor,  at  least,  for  the  sphere  in  which  their 
relationship  to  rank  imperatively  called  them  to  move  ; 
and  Edmund  was  of  that  delicate  frame  and  constitution, 
which  are  too  often  attendant  on  studious  habits  and  reflec- 
tive minds.  The  late  Lord  Edgemere  had  known  the 
worth  of  both  mother  and  son,  and  had  cherished  and 
encouraged  the  intimacy  between  them  and  his  cliild. 
Wliether  he  ever  thought  of  danger  arising  from,  it,  or 
really  would  not  have  objected  to  the  union  of  Lady  Ida 
with  the  poor  but  high-minded  Edmund  Si.  Maur,  could 
never  be  ascertamed,  as  he  died  before  Ida  herself  was 
aware  of  the  engaged  state  of  her  affections  ;  and  St, 
Maur,  whatever  might  have  been  his  private  feelings, 
knew  his  position  too  well  to  think  of  their  betrayal. 

Lady  Ida  had  not,  however,  been  a  year  an  orphan, 
before  the  fading  form  and  pallid  cheek  of  Edmund 
startled  her  into  perfect  consciousness  as  to  the  state  ol 
her  own  heart ;  and  with  all  the  refinement  and  delicacy 
of  a  high  and  pure  mind,  she  recalled  all  that  had  ever 
passed  between  them,  all  that  she  knew  of  his  character, 
and  felt  that  gold,  despicable  gold,  had  caused  this  change. 
His  too  sensitive  mind  imagined  fortune  had  forever  di- 
vided them,  that  he  dared  not  aspire  to  her  hand.  Sha 
knew  his  pride,  and  felt  that  did  she  not  advance  more 
forward  than  was,  perhaps,  quite  consistent  with  maidenly 
propriety,  not  only  her  own  happiness,  but  his  would  be 
sacrificed  forever.  Her  first  measures  were  sufficiently 
unsuccessful  to  rob  her  own  cheek  of  its  glow  her  own 
fjrm  of  its  roundness ;  the  more  kind,  the  more  gracious 
•ler  manner,  nay,  the  more  she  thought  to  draw  him  to 
aer  side,  the  more  he  shunned  her. 

"But  how  did  she  ever  discover  his  sentiments?  how 
ever  conquer  his  pride  ?"  was  Florence  Leslie's  ardent  ex- 
clamation, aware  of  the  sequel,  yet  not  imagining  how 
these  difficulties  could  be  overcome  ;  and  Emily  Melford. 
as  eager  to  speak  as  her  companion  to  listen,  continued  : — 

"  Simply  because   he   chanced   to  have  a  mother,    in 


22  woman's   friendship. 

whom  he  could  confide  a  tale  of  love.  It  was  easy  for 
Lady  Helen  to  penetrate  Ida's  secret,  and  the  betrayal  of 
Edmund's  sentiments  of  course  followed.  Once  assured 
that  she  was  beloved,  neither  her  own  maiden  modesty 
nor  natural  pride  could  be  in  aught  impugned.  All  re- 
serve was  at  an  end  ;  they  understood  each  other,  and 
never  were  three  happier  persons,  I  beheve,  than  Ida  and 
Edmund,  and  not  least,  Lady  Helen." 

"  She  must  have  been  happy,  for  it  was  greatly  her 
doing,"  observed  Florence.  "  But  why  are  they  not 
married  yet  ?  why  only  engaged  ?" 

"  For  a  very  weighty  reason ;  Ida  had  to  bear  the 
brunt  of  all  sorts  of  persecution — my  honorable  family  at 
their  head ;  every  one  who  could  claim  the  most  distant 
relationship  chose  to  declare  she  should  not  so  throw  herself 
away,  that  it  was  worse  than  folly ;  she  was  wedding 
herself  not  alone  wdth  poverty,  but  with  death,  for  every 
one  must  see  Edmund  St.  Maur  had  not  five  years  more  to 
hve." 

*'  How  cruel  I"  indignantly  exclaimed  Florence. 

"  Cruel,  in  truth ;  and  not  content  with  this,  invectives 
nearly  approaching  to  insult  were  thrown  at  her  by  all, 
not  excepting  my  own  family." 

"Not  Lady  Melford?— impossible!" 

"  No,  not  mamma  ;  she  had  rather  more  regard  for  her 
sister's  daughter,  though  she  disapproved  of  the  match 
quite  as  much  as  otners.  If  the  good  folks  had  ever  mis- 
miderstood  my  cousui  before,  it  was  impossible  to  mis- 
understand her  then.  She  bore  the  storm  firmly,  and,  in 
appearance,  unconcernedly.  Papa  once  went  the  length  oi 
saying,  he  would  prohibit  the  marriage.  She  told  him 
very  calmly  that  she  understood  liis  legal  authority  ended 
when  she  was  four-and-twenty,  and  she  did  not  mtend  to 
rfiarry  till  then.  When  the  important  day  arrived,  and, 
becoming  hdr  o\mi  mistress,  there  seemed  no  farther 
obstacle  to  her  happiness,  St.  Maur  was  suddenly  taken 
seriously  ill,  as  the  medical  men  declared,  from  over 
excitement,  and  so  many  dangerous  symptoms  returned, 
that  he  was  peremptorily  desired  to  wdnter  at  Madeira 
and  then  to  remain  in  Italy  till  his  health  was  perfectly 
ro-estabhshed.     They  assured  Lady  Helen  and  my  cousiu 


woman's  friendship.  23 

that  if  he  did  this,  no  danger  whatever  need  be  appre- 
hended ;  but,  if  he  should  remain  in  England,  they 
could  not  answer  for  the  consequences.  Imagine  poor 
Ida's  anguish ;  even  at  this  moment  she  would  have 
united  her  fate  with  his,  that  she  might  be  permitted  to 
follow  him,  and  be  his  nurse  and  his  untiring  attendant,  but 
Edmund  was  far  too  unselfish,  even  in  his  love,  to  permit 
this  sacrifice  on  her  part ;  and  Lady  Helen,  much  as  she 
felt  for  her,  seconded  her  son.  All  things  were  against 
poor  Ida.  The  medical  fraternity  put  a  decided  negative 
on  her  proposal ;  declaring  that,  in  his  present  state,  even 
the  pain  of  separation  would  be  better  borne  than  the  ex- 
citement of  her  presence.  The  opinion  of  Sir  Charles 
Brashleigh  at  length  made  her  yield  ;  she  consented  to  jet 
her  lover  go  without  her,  though  she  well  knew  what  a 
period  of  anxiety  and  sufiering  his  absence,  and  in  this 
precarious  state,  would  be  to  her.  I  never  saw  her  so 
wholly  and  utterly  overcome  as  she  was  the  first  week 
after  his  departure.  She  struggled  against  it  till  she  was 
thrown  on  a  bed  of  sickness,  and  I  am  certain  she  will 
neither  look  nor  feel  like  herself  till  she  shall  rejoin 
him." 

"  And  when  will  that  be  ?"  inquired  Florence,  her  eyes 
swelling  in  tears  ;  "  how  long  have  they  been  parted  ?" 

"  Nearly  eighteen  months,  and  it  has  been  a  period  of 
uitewse  anxiety  to  Ida.  The  accounts  have  become  more  and 
more  favorable,  but  of  course  poor  Ida  cannot  feel  happy 
or  secure,  till  she  is  by  his  side.  Papa  is  so  angry  at  hei 
resistance  to  his  authority,  that  he  will  not  allow  us  to  go 
to  Italy,  as  we  all  wished  to  do  ;  he  fancies  separation  will 
do  the  work  for  him,  and  that  they  will  forget  each  other. 
However,  next  spring  or  autumn.  Lord  Edgemere's  family 
go  to  Home,  and  Ida  goes  with  them." 

"  Oh,  what  a  blessed  time  to  look  forward  to  I"  exclaim- 
ed Florence  ;  who  added,  "but  you  say  she  has  even  en- 
countered persecution  from  your  own  family — surely  your 
<5isters  mast  have  been  her  fiiends  ?" 

'*  Surely  not,  my  very  simple  girl.  Georgiana  imagined 
herself  one  of  the  greatest  wits  and  scholars  of  the  day  ; 
and  that  Ida,  without  the  least  efibrt,  should  surpass  her, 
aiid  fascinate  not  only  the  butterflies,  but  every  man  of 


24  woman's  friendship. 

genius  and  letters  who  approached  her,  was  somewhat  too 
mortifying  to  be  borne  meekly.  No  woman  ever  yet 
quietly  surrendered  the  reputation  of  superior  talents  to 
another  woman,  and  certainly  not  to  a  younger.  Then 
Sophia  once  dreamed  she  was  a  bSauty  ;  and  though  three 
Buccessive  crowded  seasons  passed,  and  no  reward  of  that 
beauty  made  its  appearance  in  anything  like  an  offer  of 
marriage,  she  chose  to  imagine  Ida's  faultless  face  and 
form  a  decided  affront  to  her,  and  so  disHked  her  accord- 
ingly." 

"How  can  you  speak  so  of  your  sisters?"  inquired 
Florence,  half  laughingly,  half  reproachfully. 

"  How  can  I  ?  very  easily,  for  I  hate  such  little-minded- 
ness.  My  dear  Florence,  London  is  very  different  from  the 
country.  Sisters  so  often  become  rivals  ;  there  is  so  little 
time  in  the  whirl  of  gayety  for  words  and  acts  of  mutual 
kindness,  that  we  should  laugh  at  the  idea  of  imagining 
better  than  other  people." 

"  Save  me  from  London,  then  !"  ejaculated  Florence,  so 
heartily,  that  her  companion  was  yet  more  amused  ;  but 
Florence  continued — "  How  comes  it,  Emily,  that  you  can 
afford  to  speak  so  enthusiastically  of  Lady  Ida  ?" 

"  Simply,  first,  because  I  know  I  am  no  beauty  ;  secondly, 
it  is  too  much  trouble  to  attempt  rivalling  her  in  talent  or 
in  wit ;  and,  thirdly,  she  is  eight  years  older  than  I  am, 
and,  before  I  make  my  debut,  she  will  have  passed  all 
ordeal,  by  taking  unto  herself  a  partner  for  better  or 
worse,  and  so  she  cannot  be  my  rival ;  so  do  not  give  me 
credit  for  any  seeming  amiability,  for  if  I  were  a  belle,  and 
a  would-be  blue  one,  I  should  be  just  as  envious  aa 
others." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

tUA. — SYMPATHY. — FRIENDSHIP   FORMED. 

Lady  Ida  Villiers  came,  and  Florence  Leslie  found 
every  vision  of  fancy  and  anticipation  more  than  realized. 
It  was  impossible  for  such   an   enthusiastic,    affectionate 


woman's   friendship.  25 

being  as  herself  to  be  in  Lady  Ida's  company,  to  listen  to 
her  varied  powers  of  conversation,  which  she  had  the  rare 
faculty  of  adapting  to  every  character  with  wliom.  she 
mingled,  still  more  to  find  herself,  after  the  first  i'ew  days, 
an  object  of  notice,  even  of  interest,  without  feeling  every 
ardent  affection,  based  on  esteem,  enlisted  in  her  cause 
She  found,  to  her  utmost  astonishment,  that  her  thoughts 
were  read  by  her  new  companion  before  she  had  shaped 
them  into  words ;  her  tastes  drawn  forth  irresistibly  to 
meet  with  sympathy  and  improvement ;  her  simple  plea- 
sures, both  in  books  and  nature,  appreciated,  encouraged, 
and  so  delightfully  directed  higher  than  she  had  ever  ven- 
tured alone,  that  every  hour  spent  in  Lady  Ida's  society 
was  productive  of  pleasures  which  she  had  never  tven 
imagined  before.  Nor  was  it  only  by  words*  that  Lady 
Ida's  character  opened  itself  to  the  admiring  and  wonder- 
ing gaze  of  Florence,  She  observed  her  daily  conduct  to 
those  around  her.  Courteous  and  kind,  to  her  aunt  far 
more  affectionate  than  either  of  ler  own  daughters — no 
stranger  could  have  ever  imagined  she  was  simply  return 
ing  good  for  evil ;  even  to  her  uncle  she  never  failed  in 
courtesy  and  gentleness,  though  his  manner  towards  her 
was  always  cold  and  supercilious.  The  trials  of  her  oAvn 
heart,  her  ov/n  anxieties,  never  passed  her  lips  ;  but  the 
paleness  of  her  beautiful  cheek,  the  occasional  dimness  of 
the  large,  soft,  hazel  eye,  the  fragility  of  her  finely-propor- 
tioned form,  were  only  too  painful  evidences  of  all  which  in 
secret  she  endured. 

Obtuse  beings,  indeed,  might  not  have  marked  these 
things  ;  but  Florence  did,  and  with  all  the  vivid  imagina- 
tiveness of  her  nature,  placed  herself  in  Lady  Ida's  situa- 
tion, and  shuddered.  Faithful  love  and  mutual  devotion 
vv^ere  subjects  absolutely  hallowed  to  her  fancy ;  and  so 
strong  was  this  feehng,  that  her  own  heart  beat  thick  and 
painfully  on  those  days  when  letters  could  be  received 
from  Italy,  and  her  quick  eye,  awakened  by  affection,  could 
read  the  rapidly-increasing  paleness  of  Lady  Ida's  cheek, 
the  trembling  of  the  hand  rendering  every  eflbrt  to  con- 
tinue drawing,  writing,  or  work  impossible,  though  all  the 
while  her  conversation  upon  difierent  subjects  would  con- 
tinue without  hesitation  or  pause.      Once  she  hs-d  beea 

3 


20  woman's     FRIENDfellir. 

present  when  one  of  these  precious  letters  was  uncxpect 
edly  brought  to  lier  friend,  and  Lady  Ida,  it  seemed,  had 
forgotten  any  one  was  near,  for  the  thrilling  cry  of  tran- 
sport with  which  she  seized  the  papers,  the  passionate 
kisses  she  pressed  on  the  senseless  letters  which  composed 
his  name,  the  burst  of  fervent  thankfulness  which  escaped 
her  lips,  betrayed  how  strong  must  be  the  control  which 
she  exercised  when  receiving  similar  treasures  in  presence 
of  her  family. 

Some  dispositions  would  have  triumphed  in  witnessing 
this  absence  of  restraint,  would  have  hugged  themselves 
up  in  the  belief  that  they  were  more  in  her  confidence 
than  others.  Not  so  Florence  Leslie.  She  glided  from 
the  apartment  as  silently,  as  fleetly,  as  if  she  fancied  her- 
self guilty  in  tarrying  one  moment  to  vdtness  emotions  so 
sacred  and  so  blessed.  Now  it  so  happened  that  Lady  Ida 
was  aware  of  her  young  companion's  presence  when  the 
packet  was  received,  but  not  till  the  delight  of  its  perusal 
was  in  part  subsided  had  she  leisure  to  remark  that  Flo- 
rence had  disappeared,  bearing  the  drawing  on  which  she 
had  been  engaged  along  with  her.  The  action  struck  her, 
and  heightened  the  interest  that  from  the  first  the  simple 
country  girl  had  excited ;  nor  was  the  feeling  decreased  by 
the  glistening  eye  and  timid  accents  with  which,  when 
they  met  agam,  and,  as  it  chanced,  alone,  Florence  T-en- 
tured  to  ask, 

"  If  the  news  from  Italy  were  favorable  ?  If  Mr.  St 
Maur  were  as  well  as  by  the  last  accounts  ?" 

The  pressure  of  the  hand  which  accompanied  the  rapid 
answer,  "  Better,  my  dear  girl,  better  than  he  has  been  yet 
and  for  a  much  longer  interval,"  at  once  told  her  that 
Lady  Ida  accepted  her  sympathy. 

No  persuasion,  no  authority,  could  prevail  on  Lady  Ida 
to  jom  Lady  Melford  and  her  daughters  in  their  visitings 
balls,  concerts,  and  other  Christmas  amusements,  with 
which  they  sought  to  while  away  their  sojourn  in  the 
country. 

Georgiana  and  Sophia  called  her  proud  and  overbearing, 
and  said  that  the  poor  simple  folks  of  Torquay  were  not 
good  enough  to  associate  with   one  so  fastidious.     Even 


woman's     FRIENDSHir.  27 

Lady  Melford  represented  that  her  reserve  might  create  uu* 
pleasant  feelings,  which  would  be  better  avoided. 

"Tell  them  the  truth,  my  dear  aunt,"  was  her  half 
laughing,  though  earnest  reply  ;  "  tell  them  Lady  Ida  "Vil- 
liers  has  forsworn  all  gayety  such  as  visiting  engenders,  till 
she  has  made  a  pilgrimage  to  St.  Peter's,  and  has  returned 
thence  miraculously  cured.  Pray  smooth  all  the  plumes 
my  reserve  may  have  ruffled,  by  the  true  information,  that 
for  the  last  eighteen  months  I  have  withdrawn  myself  al- 
most entirely  from  London  society  ;  that  I  mean  not  the 
very  shghtest  affront  ;  and  if  my  word  be  not  sufficient,  1 
will  give  them  references  to  Almack's  and  lady  patronesses, 
and  to  all  the  givers  of  balls,  concerts,  private  theatricals, 
etc,  as  vouchers  of  my  truth." 

"  How  can  you  be  so  ridiculous,  Ida  ?  You  make  youi- 
self  the  laughing-stock  of  the  country  by  this  perverse- 
ness.  I  shall  tell  them  no  such  thing.  Surely,  when  you 
are  the  wdfe  of  Edmund  St.  Maur,  it  will  be  time  enougw 
to  make  such  a  sacrifice  ;  there  is  no  occasion  for  it  beforw- 
hand." 

"  Then  you  see,  aunt,  you  will  do  less  to  save  the  pooi 
people's  feelings  than  I  would." 

"  As  if  such  a  tale  would  be  delivered,"  interposed  Mis& 
Melford,  sourly. 

"  Disbelief  is  their  sin,  then,  Georgy,  not  mine  ;  I  would 
tell  the  truth." 

But  laugh  off  such  attacks  as  she  might,  she  was  not  to 
be  persuaded  ;  and,  much  to  the  marvel  of  her  cousins,  the 
greater  part  of  the  gentry  continued  to  give  her  the  meed 
of  admiration  still. 

Lady  Ida  Yilliers  might  and  did  refuse  to  enter  into 
evening  gayeties ;  but  their  residence  in  Torquay  presented 
her  with  one  rich  source  of  gratification,  which  drew  her 
from  herself  almost  unconsciously.  Nature,  the  beautiful 
scenery  of  Devonshire,  presented,  even  in  the  wintei 
months,  sufficient  charm  to  banish  all  recollection  that  in 
summer  it  could  be  lovelier  still.  Lady  Ida  would  order 
out  her  own  carriage,  and  leaving  the  gay  resorts  of  the 
town,  put  herself  under  the  guidance  of  the  delighted  Flo- 
rence,  and  explore  the  country  for  twenty  miles  rouiii ; 


28  woman's    FRIENDSIlir. 

and  when  there,  sketches  were  to  be  taken,  associations  ol 
history  or  romance  recalled,  passages  of  favorite  poems 
sought  for,  in  glowing  words  to  embody  the  imagery 
aromid. 

For  Florence  these  were,  indeed,  happy  days.  She 
gave  vent  to  her  vivid  fancy,  her  exuberant  elasticity  ol 
spirits,  for  it  was  impossible  to  retain  the  silencing  av/c 
which  Lady  Ida's  superior  endowments,  both  personal  and 
mental,  had  first  inspired,  when  thus  unrestrainedly  en- 
joying her  society.  Emily  Melford  was  often  of  their 
party,  and  by  her  quaint  remarks  only  heightened  our 
young  heroine's  buoyant  mirth ;  and  in  witnessing  her 
happiness.  Lady  Ida,  ever  the  most  unselfish  of  mortals, 
could  forget  her  own  anxieties,  and  rejoice  that  even  in 
her  present  depression  she  had  the  power  of  bestowing  so 
much  joy. 

"  Florence,  you  are  really  such  an  admirable  Cicerone, 
I  must  recommend  you  to  all  visitors  of  Devonshire.  If  it 
had  not  been  for  you  I  should  have  left  the  country  as  ig- 
norant of  its  beauties  as  I  entered  it" — was  Lady  Ida's  ob- 
servation, Avhen  returnmg  from  a  beautiful  excursion  to  the 
ruins  of  Berry  Pomeroy  Castle. 

Their  road  was  winding  close  by  the  banks  of  the  Teign, 
seeming  to  be  divided  from  the  river  only  by  the  high  lux- 
uriant trees,  which,  growing  on  either  side  so  closely,  the 
carriage  v/ould  have  been  in  some  danger  had  it  encoun- 
tered any  other  vehicle.  There  were  innumerable  ever- 
green shrubs,  and  the  clear  tracery  of  every  minute  branch 
and  twig  of  the  trees  against  the  light  blue  sky,  produced 
as  beautiful  an  eflbct  as  the  darker  and  richer  shades  of 
summer.  The  sun ,  too,  was  setting  with  that  gorgeousness 
peculiar  to  Devonshire  even  in  the  winter  months ;  and 
the  river  reflected  every  shade  with  a  fidelity  as  lovely  as  ^ 
it  was  striliing. 

"  You  certainly  ought  to  give  some  weighty  proof  of  grat- 
itude, Ida  ;  for  either  Florence  or  Devonshire  has  made 
you  a  diiierent  being.  You  are  more  like  yourself  than  I 
ever  sec  you  in  London,"  rejoined  Emily. 

"  Poor  London,  for  what  sins  has  it  not  to  be  answer- 
able in  your  estimation,  Emily  ?  I  wish  you  would  be 
candid  for  once.      You  abuse  London,  because,  you  say, 


woman's    FRIENUSUn.  29 

tlie  people  are  so  cold  and  artificial,  aucl  ibr  a  multitude  of 
causes  wliicli  I  cannot  define.  Will  you  teJl  me,  are  your 
country  visitors  more  to  your  taste  ?" 

"  No  ;  they  are  as  much  too  simple,  as  the  Londoners 
are  too  artificial ;  but  at  least  you  can  escape  from  their 
influence  better  here  than  in  London," 

"  Then  you  would  hke  to  live  an  anchorite  in  the 
country  ?" 

"  Not  for  the  world  I  I  like  society,  bad  as  it  is,  rather 
too  well." 

"  Then  pray  do  not  abuse  it.  You  know  I  often  tell  you, 
Emily,  it  is  your  oaati  natural  coldness  which  reflects  itself 
upon  every  body." 

"  Thanks  for  the  compliment,  m.ost  noble  cousin." 

"  It  is  no  compliment,  Emily ;  but  sad,  sober  truth.  I 
cannot  bear  such  sentiments  in  one  so  young ;  for  what 
injustice  or  evil  can  you  have  witnessed  ?" 

"  None  in  the  world  ;  only  as  we  believe  in  original  sm, 
there  must  be  some  contradiction  to  our  faith  in  human 
^drtue.  Now,  as  I  mean  to  be  consistent,  I  uphold  that 
evil  is  more  prevalent  than  good ;  and,  to  descend  from 
such  grave  subjects,  that  we  meet  disagreeable  people  more 
often  than  agreeable  ones." 

"  Perhaps  so  ;  but  there  is  good  in  the  world,  dark  as  it 
is — great  good,  and  the  sublimest  virtue,  I  believe  there 
may  be  almost  perfect  characters  even  on  earth." 

"  Edmund  St.  Maur,  for  mstance,"  mterrupted  Emily 
Melford,  mischievously. 

'  No,  Emily,"  rephed  Lady  Ida,  gravely.  "  If  I  had 
made  him  an  idol  of  perfection,  I  should  stand  but  little 
chance  oi  lastmg  happiness  ;  for  I  should  be  liable  to  have 
my  bright  picture  tarnished  by  all  the  unforeseen  chances 
and  changes  of  life.  I  esteem  him,  or  I  would  not  wed 
him  ;  but  I  know  his  failings,  as  I  trust  he  does  mine. 
He  is  not  old  enough  for  the  perfection  to  which  I  allude  ; 
he  has  had  the  trial  neither  of  adversity  nor  of  prosperity 
— I  mean,  in  the  extreme.  His  mother  comes  far  nearer 
my  standard  of  perfection  in  human  character  than  my 
Edmund." 

"  Eloquently  answered,  at  least,  cousin  mine ;  I  may 
believe  you  or  not,  as  I  please.     Florence,  what  are  you 

3* 


30  woman's   friendship. 

thinking  about  ?  Ida  is  no  oracle,  that  you  should  so  d© 
vour  her  words.     My  wisdom  is  quite  as  good." 

"  I  do  not  think  so,  Emily  ;  for  my  feelings  side  with  hel 
view  of  the  question." 

"  But  I  Avish  you  would  tell  me,  Lady  Ida,  all  you  find 
to  hke  in  London." 

"  All,  Florence  !  what  a  question  I  Why,  a  great  many 
things  ;  some  of  which,  had  I  you  near  me,  I  would 
compel  you  to  like  London  for,  too.  Its  magazines  of 
art ;  its  galleries  of  painting  and  sculpture ;  its  varied 
avenues  to  the  indulgence  of  every  taste — in  muaic,  from 
the  solemn  strains  of  our  suhlime  Handel  to  the  hghtest 
Tffielody  of  the  Italians.  Then  there  are  all  the  literati  ol 
the  >and.  We  may  gather  around  us  the  poet,  the  philoso- 
pher, the  novelist,  and  mark  if  their  characters  accord 
with  their  writings,  and  love  or  shun  them  accordingly. 
Oh  !  there  are  many  things  to  make  a  residence  in  London 
delightful  for  a  while  ;  though  I  acknowledge  with  you,  I 
should  wish  my  home  to  be  an  old  baronial  hall  of  dear  old 
England." 

"  But  these  things,  Lady  Ida,  are  only  for  the  noble  and 
rich.  Now,  in  Home,  Naples,  Florence,  such  treasures  of 
art  and  science  are  open  to  every  rank  and  every  fortmie  ; 
and  there  too,  with  the  most  lovely  country  that  eye  can 
dwell  on  or  mind  dehght  in." 

"So  it  s-eems  from  a  distance,  my  dear  girl.  When  I 
return  from  my  pilgrimage  to  Italy,  I  will  give  you  truer 
impressions.  Will  you  trust  me  ?  and,  meanwhile,  rest 
content  in  old  England  ?" 

"  YeF.  if  you  will  tell  me." 

"  If  ]  will  I  what  do  you  mean?" 

The  <5ye3  of  Florence  slowly  filled  with  tears.,  and  she 
turned  hastily  to  the  window,  exclaiming  at  the  same 
install.^  that  they  were  at  home  ; 


woman's  friendship.  31 


CHAPTER  V. 

A   MORNING   AT   ST.   JOHN's. 


That  Florence  Leslie's  simple  and  unselfish  nature  was 
uncorrupted  by  the  notice  she  attracted  in  the  noble  <iiicie 
of  St.  John's,  many  trifling  incidents  served  to  prove. 
She  had  been  spending  some  days,  as  usual,  at  St.  John's, 
and  "was  seated  one  morning  in  Lady  Ida's  own  boudoir, 
employed  in  finishing  a  drawing  of  a  pretty  little  group  of 
peasant  children,  who  had  attracted  her  notice  on  a  late 
excursion.  Lady  Ida  was  embroidering  ;  Emily  Melford 
stretched  listlessly  on  a  sofa,  reading,  every  now  and  then 
uttering  sounds  expressive  (as  Florence  declared)  of  such 
disapproval,  that  she  wondered  how  she  could  go  on  with 
the  book.  It  was  a  lovely  morning  in  March,  so  balmy 
that  the  French  windows  were  open,  permitting  the  en- 
trance of  a  complete  flood  of  sunshine.  Already  the  lawn, 
on  which  the  windows  opened,  was  spangled  with  snow- 
drops, hepaticas,  violets,  double  and  single  primroses,  and 
the  loveliest  hyacinths  of  every  brilliant  color,  decorated 
the  room.  It  was  a  lovely  retreat,  peculiarly  delightful 
to  Florence,  from  the  books,  the  music,  prints,  and  flowers 
which  Lady  Ida's  taste  had  collected  around  her.  Their 
retirement  was  often  invaded  by  Alfred  Melford,  who  de- 
ciarcu  himself  a  butterfly,  seeking  the  warmest  sunshine  ; 
and  so,  wherever  he  might  rove  for  a  while,  he  was  even 
compelled  to  his  cousin's  boudoir. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Emily?  Why  are  you  groaning 
over  your  book  in  this  melancholy  style  ?  If  it  be  such 
trash,  why  read  it  ? " 

"  Because  I  have  nearly  exhausted  all  the  libraries  in 
this  out-of-the-world  place,  and  I  am  even  compelled  to 
resort  to  this,  over  which  I  chanced  to  find  that  simpleton 
Florence  deeply  affected  the  other  day  ;  so,  as  I  will  give 
her  credit  sometimes  for  good  taste,  I  thought  I  would  try 
it." 

"  I   should   think   you   need   scarcely  resort  to   public 


32  woman's  I  riendsiiip. 

libraries  for  books  to  while  away  your  time,  before  dlimei 
at  least.  My  uncle  has  furnished  a  plentiful  supply,  I  am 
sure,  and  you  are  quite  welcome  to  any  of  mine." 

"  Thanks,  cousin  mine  ;  I  am  too  lazy  in  the  country  for 
any  thing  but  novels  ;  they  sickened  me  with  history,  and 
almost  with  poetry,  at  school." 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  Emily,  do  not  say  so,  and  still 
more,  do  not  feel  so.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you  never 
intend  reading  any  tiring  serious  again?" 

*'  Now,  Ida,  do  not  preach.  You  do  not  know  what  it  is 
to  be  under  fasliionable  thraldom,  and  care,  rigid  as  that 
of  any  lady  abbess,  for  fourteen  years  cut  of  nineteen ;  so 
you  camiot  tell  what  it  is  to  feel  free.  I  mean  to  seek  my 
own  comfort,  my  own  pleasure  henceforth,  to  make  up  for 
it." 

"  And  be  the  most  selfish,  most  disagreeable  being 
amongst  all  those  you  dignify  with  such  appellations," 
rephed  Lady  Ida  indignantly.  *'  If  you  do,  only  keep  out 
of  my  way,  for  I  shaU  disclaim  all  relationship  with 
you." 

"  But  what  is  there  in  this  book  you  so  dislike,  Emily  ?'* 
interposed  Florence.  And  an  animated  discussion  of  its 
excellence  and  non-excellence  followed,  which  we  have  no 
space  to  transcribe  :  it  ended  by  Ertiily's  declaring  that 
Florence  was  certainly  intended  for  a  poet,  as  she  had 
such  highfloA^ai  notions  of  human  nature — all  the  worse 
for  her. 

"  Why  all  the  worse  ?" 

*'  Because  you  will  never  be  appreciated  or  understood, 
and  are  doomed  to  lonely  musmg  all  your  life." 

"  Do  not  heed  her,  Florence,"  interposed  Lady  Ida : 
"  she  judges  all  the  world  by  herself!" 

"  Oh,  but  you  do  not  know  Florence  as  I  do  :  she  says 
it  is  not  only  possible,  but  quite  natural,  to  seek  the  happi- 
ness of  those  we  love  more  than  our  own." 

''  Well,  and  she  is  right." 

'•  What,  even  in  the  rivalry  of  love  ?" 

"  Stop,  Emily,  let  me  tell  Lady  Ida  exactly  v/hat  I  said 
— simply  that  I  thought  it  icas  possible  for  a  woman  to 
love,  belbre  feeling  certain  of  a  return  ;  and  that,  should 
she  ever  discover  the  happmess  of  him  she  loved  was  un- 


WOMAN    S    FRIENDSHIP.  33 

fortunately  distinct  from  her  own,  slie  would  do  every  thing 
in  her  power  to  forward  that  happiness,  even  if  in  so  doing 
she  condemned  herself  to  misery.  Emily  declares  it  ia 
impossible,  and  that  she  should  herself  hate  her  supposed 
lover,  and  his  more  fortunate  choice,  one  and  all  invet- 
erately." 

"  It  is  a  v/eighty  subject  for  decision,  Florence,"  replied 
Lady  Ida  ;  "  requiring  more  complete  immolation  of  self, 
than,  perhaps,  any  but  those  in  such  an  emergency  can 
imagine  ;  but  that  there  are  such  noble  spirits  I  do  most 
truthfully  believe." 

"  There,  Emily  I"  exclaimed  Florence,  triumphantly. 

"  Wait  till  you  yourself  are  in  such  an  enviable  position, 
and  decide  on  the  possibihty  or  impossibility  then,"  replied 
Emily. 

"  If  such  suffering  were  indeed  mine.  Heaven  grant  1 
should  feel  and  act  the  same ;  and  that  I  might  be 
stronger,  firmer,  0  how  much  firmer  than  I  am  now," 
responded  Florence ;  and  there  was  so  much  solemnity, 
so  much  feeling  in  the  tone,  that  it  effectually  checked  any 
further  jesting  on  the  part  of  Emily.  All  that  is  really 
natural  is  always  affecting  ;  and  Florence  was  so  com- 
pletely a  child  of  nature,  that  what  would  have  appeared 
folly  in  others,  in  her  did  but  enhance  the  interest  she 
never  failed  to  excite,  and  increase  affection  in  every  heart 
capable  of  appreciating  and  understanding  her. 

"  And  I  say,  Florence,  dearest.  Heaven  grant  you  may 
never  pass  through  such  a  fiery  ordeal,  for,  of  all  persons, 
you  are  the  least  fitted  to  endure  it,"  ansAvered  Lady  Ida, 
in  a  tone  which  brought  her  young  companion  to  the 
cushion  at  her  feet,  and  resting  her  arm  on  her  knee, 
Florence  simply  asked,  "  Why  ?" 

"  Because  you  give  me  the  idea  of  one  formed  but  fol 
happiness,  my  gentle-minded  girl.  One  who  is  so  con- 
tinually alive  to  the  feelings,  the  joys,  and  griefs  of  others, 
ought  to  be  happy  herself  It  would  be  a  rpal  grief  to 
me  to  hear  you  were  in  sorrow,  Florence." 

"  So,  if  your  love  is  to  be  unretumed,  do  not  love  at  all," 
laughingly  added  Emily ;  "or  Ida  would  have  to  grieve 
Bomewhat  too  soon." 

"  Love  I  oh,  I  never  mean  to  love  I  I  dread  its  power 


34  WOMAN*S    FRIENDSHIP. 

far  too  much.     You  know  what  my  song  says ;"  and  th« 
lively  girl  flew  to  the  piano,  and  warbled  forth  : — 

"  No,  tempt  me  not,  I  will  not  love  I 

My  soul  could  scarce  sustain 
Tlie  thrilling  transports  of  its  bliss — ■ 

The  anguish  of  its  pain : 
Too  full  of  joy  for  earth  to  know, 

Too  wild  to  look  above ; 
I  could  not  bear  the  doubt,  the  dread — < 

No !  no  1  I  will  not  love ! 

"  No,  tempt  me  not — ^love's  sweetest  flower 

Hath  poison  in  its  smile ; 
Love  only  woos  with  dazzling  power. 

To  fetter  hearts  the  while : 
I  will  not  wear  its  rosy  chain, 

Nor  even  its  fragrance  prove ; 
I  fear  too  much  love's  silent  pain — 

No !  no !  I  will  not  love !" 

"  Bravo,  Florence  !"  exclaimed  Alfred  Melford,  bound- 
ing through  the  open  window,  with  a  pink  note  in  his 
hand  ;  "I  never  heard  you  sing  so  well ;  what  has  inspired 
you  ?" 

"  Your  absence,  of  course,  and  the  absence  of  all 
critical  listeners,  but  Ida  and  myself.  What  have  you 
there  ?" 

"  Something  to  shake  off  your  ennui.  An  invitation  to 
a  ball  at  the  Oaklands." 

"  Oh,  delightful !  give  it  me  ;"  and  the  young  lady  was 
aDsolutely  roused  enough  to  spring  from  her  sofa,  and 
snatch  the  note  from  her  brother's  hand  :  "  and  one  for 
Ida,  too,  of  course,  and  of  course  she  will  not  go.  Flo- 
rence, do  you  think  your  family  are  asked  ?" 

"  Probably  not.  Your  friends  associate  but  with  lords 
and  ladies,  gold  and  jewels ;  and,  believmg  fine  feathers 
make  fine  birds,  unless  I  would  consent  to  go,  jackdaw 
fashion,  bedecked  in  borrowed  plumes,  they  would  not 
adnoit  me." 

"  Florence  LesHe  a  satirist !"  rejoined  young  Melford, 
laughing  ;  "  who  would  have  believed  it  ?  What  a  joko 
it  would  be  to  attire  and  proclaim  you  the  Lady  Ida 
VilherS;  and  take  you  with  us.     You  are  much  of  the 


woman's  friendship.  35 

same  lieij2:lit — Ida,  do  bestow  your  jewels  and  name  on 
Florence  for  the  night." 

"  She  is  welcome  to  them,  if  she  v/ill  accept  them," 
replied  Lady  Ida. 

"  Thank  you,  I  had  rather  not,  even  if  I  stood  no  chance 
of  being  recognized  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Oakland  themselves, 
and  the  greater  number  of  their  guests  ;  I  will  never  go 
where  my  own  proper  person  is  despised." 

"  Proud,  too,  Miss  Florence  I  why,  I  never  knew  you 
before  to-day.  I  voav  if  you  were  not  hkely  to  be  dis- 
covered, you  should  go  as  Lady  Ida ;  but  as  Miss  Leslie 
cannot,  Ida,  I  wish  you  would,  if  it  were  only  to  give  these 
affectors  of  refinement  a  taste  of  England's  real  dignity 
and  pride." 

"  You  know  I  never  go  anywhere,  Alfred  ;  and  Florence 
has  not  given  me  any  desire  to  make  an  exception  in  favoi 
of  Mrs.  Oakland." 

"  Ida  can  give  the  good  folks  of  the  country  a  much 
better  idea  of  London  refinement  and  fashion,  than  by 
going  out  to  do  so,  Alfred.  I  have  been  conjuring  and 
beseeching  her  to  give  a  ball,  preceded  by  a  regular  series 
oi  tableaux  vivajis,  dress,  scenery,  frame  and  all.  One  of 
the  large  rooms  up^airs  would  do  admirably  for  it,  and 
then  a  ball  I  Why,  this  poor  rustic  town  would  be  in  con- 
vulsions of  excitement  for  months  afterwards  ;  and,  as  for 
you,  what  would  you  not  be  in  their  estimation  ?  Beauty 
— grace — fascination  !  Ida,  you  would  impress  yourself 
on  every  Devonsliire  hea-rt  indelibly,  to  the  utter  forgetful- 
ness  of  all  the  seeming  pride,  with  which  you  may  have 
been  charged.     You  promised  me  to  think  about  it." 

"  But  not  to  grant  it,  Emily." 

*'  Oh,  but  to  think  about  it  is  half  consent,  Alfred, — 
Florence,  you  might  assist  me  with  your  united  influence." 

"  I  am  sure  I  will,  even  on  my  Imee,  sweet  cousin  mine  ; 
be  merciful — tliink  how  rusticated,  how  gothic  we  are 
here,  and  for  pity  give  us  some  taste  of  London  and  its 
fashion.  The  governor  is  much  too  solemn  for  any  thing 
but  those  great  pompous  dinners,  which,  in  a  country 
place  like  this,  I  detest.  Now,  do  be  kind,  sweet  Ida ; 
Edmund  is  better,  you  are  going  to  Italy  next  August, 
and,   in  all   probability,  ere  the  year   is  out,   will   havo 


36  woman's    FKIENDSIIir. 

merged  tlie  Lady  Ida  Villiers  in  the  Lady  Ida  St.  Maur. 
Now,  all  these  things  considered,  ought  you  not  to  give 
us  poor  mortals  the  thing  we  crave  ?  You  know  Edmund 
has  taken  you  to  task  very  often,  for  making  yourself  a 
nun  for  his  sake  ;  and,  I  am  sure,  if  I  could  but  write  and 
ask  him,  he  would  say — Ida,  be  obliging ;  give  the  poor 
folks  a  ball." 

*'  Alfred,  you  are  perfectly  absurd  ;  get  up,  ai.d  be  a 
rational  being.  Florence,  what  do  you  say — shall  I  give 
this  said  ball — would  you  hke  it  ?" 

"Would  1  not  I"  exclaimed  Florence,  with  animation; 
"and  the  tableaux/  oh!  I  have  wished  to  see  them  s« 
very  often." 

"  Mmd,  then,  if  I  grant  this  weighty  boon,  I  engage  yoTi 
for  one  of  my  principal  performers." 

"  Me  I  dear  Lady  Ida ;  I  should  be  terrified  out  of  all 
pleasure — how  could  I  compete  with  Mrs.  and  the  Misses 
Oakland?" 

"  Oh,  admirably  !"  interposed  Melford,  comically  ;  "  you 
shall  not  dance  at  the  ball,  if  you  will  not  give  your  aid  to 
the  tableaux.  Come,  cousin,  love,  I  give  you  a  fortnight 
to  think  of  it ;  for  it  must  not  be  till  Easter  week. 
Frederic  comes  down  then  with  my  father,  and  they  bring 
a  host  of  people  with  them,  so  we  shall  muster  a  splendid 
corps.  1  promise  to  be  rational  and  grave,  and  all  you  can 
possibly  desire." 

"  And  I  will  read  every  wise  book  you  can  recommend, 
and  forswear  all  novels  till  after  your  ball,  Ida,  dear ;" 
continued  Emily,  hanging  caressingly  about  her  consul's 
neck. 

"  And  not  remember  one  word  of  my  wise  books,  as 
you  call  them,"  replied  Lady  Ida,  laugliing.  "  Well,  wait 
till  my  next  letters  from  Italy,  and  I  promise  you  a  decided 
answer  then." 


WOMAN    S    FRIENDSHIP. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


37 


GOO'i*    HEWS. — THOUGHTS    OF    THE    FUTURE. — WOMAN  S   I>'F1.UENCS 
OVER  WOMAN. 

Lady  Ida's  only  condition  of  waiting  for  news  frora 
Italy  was  so  natural,  that  her  cousins  did  not  utter  one 
-word  of  entreaty  more,  but  amused  themselves  by  antici- 
pating all  the  delights  they  were  pre-determined  to  enjoy. 
Alfred  waylaid  the  postman  every  evening.  Emily  com- 
menced reading  Scott's  Life  of  Napoleon  :  whether  baJs, 
tableaux,  and  charades,  fashionable  costume,  and  a  new 
set  of  jewels  presented  to  her  by  her  cousin  Ida  for  Mrs. 
Oakland's  grand  assembly,  ever  floated  on  the  pages,  till, 
by  an  Arabian  transformation,  Scott  seemed  to  write  of 
them,  and  not  of  heroes  and  battles,  we  will  not  pretend  to 
say ;  but  certain  it  is.  Lady  Ida's  quiet  smile  at  Emily's 
new  study  appeared  to  doubt  the  good  effects  which  might 
accrue  from  it.  Florence  evinced  no  unusual  excitement, 
but  there  was  a  bright  glitter  in  her  dark  eye,  a  laughter 
on  her  lip,  whenever  Emily  alluded  to  the  ball,  which  said 
she  enjoyed  its  anticipation  quite  as  much  as  her-  more 
noisy  companions.  The  Honorable  Miss  Melford  drew  her- 
self up,  and  looked  solemn,  and  declared,  Ida  might  talk, 
and  Emily  make  herself  a  fool,  but  nothing  would  come 
of  it  Miss  Sophia  looked  at  her  pretty  face  and  person, 
in  a  large  pier-glass,  about  six  times  more  often  than 
usual  in  the  course  of  every  day,  and  allowed  that  a  ball 
would  be  very  agreeable,  and  tableaux  still  more  so ;  and 
Emily  enjoyed  a  hearty  fit  of  laughter,  in  spite  of  Lady 
Ida's  reproaches  and  Florence's  entreaties,  at  catching  hei 
sister  one  day  hunting  out  a  variety  of  dresses,  and  prac- 
tising various  graceful  attitudes  for  the  different  characters 
she  might  be  called  upon  to  personate. 

The  long-desired  letters  came,  at  length,  and  were  so 
much  more  than  usually  satisfactory,  that  Lady  Ida  felt 
her  oAvn  spirits  rise  sufficiently,  even  to  satisfy  Emily  and 
Alfred ;  who,  notwithstanding  their  frivolity,  really  loved 
her.  and  would  have  done  much  to  serve  her.     Edmund 

4 


38  woman's  friendship. 

St.  Maur  was  so  well,  that  it  required  all  the  authority  ot 
his  medical  adviser,  all  the  persuasion  of  his  mother,  to 
prevent  his  setting  ofF  for  England  to  fetch  Ida  himself. 
He  had  been  told  that  a  residence  of  four  or  five  years 
longer  in  Italy,  would  (under  a  gracious  Providence)  bo 
eflectually  confirm  his  health,  that  he  might  then,  in  all 
probability,  reside  wherever  he  pleased  ;  endowed  with 
sufficient  physical  strength  to  occupy  that  high  station 
among  the  senators  and  the  literati  ^f  his  country,  lor 
which  he  had,  at  one  time,  so  pined  as  to  increase  the  dis- 
order under  which  he  labored.  A  brief  visit  to  England 
might  not  be  hurtful,  but  there  was  a  doubt  attached  to 
it,  which  Lady  Helen  could  not  n^rve  her  mind  to  meet ; 
and  while  Edmund  filled  his  letter  to  his  betrothed  vvdth 
eloquent  intreaties  for  her  only  to  say  the  word,  and  ho 
would  fly  to  her  side,  in  contempt  of  every  prohibition ; 
that  his  inability  to  live  in  England  was  all  a  farce  ;  why 
should  he  banish  his  Ida  from  her  native  land,  where  she 
was  so  fitted  to  shine,  when  he  was  as  well  and  strong 
as  any  of  her  countrymen  ?  "While  he  WTote  thus,  Lady 
Helen  besought  her  to  come  to  them  at  once,  by  her  pres- 
ence, her  aflection,  to  retain  him  in  Italy,  to  control  those 
passionate  asj)irations  after  fame,  which  he  was  not  yet 
strong"  enough  to  bear,  and  which  her  influence  alone  had 
power  to  check. 

Had  these  letters  been  the  only  ones  received,  there 
would  indeed  have  been  much  to  cause  rejoicing,  but  they 
were  mingled  with  alloy,  as  to  how  Lady  Ida  could  reach 
Nice  as  soon  as  inclination  prompted.  Lord  Melford, 
irritated,  as  we  have  seen,  beyond  all  bounds  at  his  niece's 
independent  spirit,  she  knew  would  not  stir  a  step  to  for- 
ward their  meeting,  and  would  as  soon  think  of  taking  a 
flight  to  the  moon,  as  of  accompanying  her  himself  to 
Italy ;  though  both  liis  sons  declared,  that  were  it  but 
etiquette,  they  would  go  with  their  cousin  themselves, 
rather  than  see  her  so  tormented  by  anxiety  or  delay. 
Fortunately  for  Lady  Ida,  the  inheritor  of  her  father's 
title,  who  had  been  selected  by  him  as  her  second  guardian, 
was  a  very  diflerent  character  from  Lord  Melford.  Dis- 
approve of  the  match  Lord  Edgemere  decidedly  did,  but 
only  on  account  of  St.  Maur's  extremely  precarious  health 


woman's  friendship.  35 

Lady  Ida's  constancy  and  independence,  however,  instead 
of  irritating  him,  only  increased  the  warm  admiration 
which  her  character  had  always  excited  ;  and  he  had  long 
determined  that  he  would  himself  conduct  her  to  Italy, 
and  give  her  to  St.  Maur,  from  the  bosom  of  his  own 
"amily. 

Lady  Edgemere  had  always  loved  Ida  as  her  own  child, 
and  received  from  her  the  attentions  of  a  daugliter ;  wliile 
her  eldest  daughter,  Lady  Mary  Yilhers,  was  Ida's  dearest 
and  most  intimate  friend,  though  nearly  five  years  her 
imiior.  This  noble  family  had  never  joined  in  those  per- 
Becutions  wliich  Emily  Melford  described  as  heaped  upon 
Ida  by  every  man,  woman,  or  child,  who  could  claim  re- 
lationship with  her ;  an  exception,  perhaps,  because, 
though  distantly  connected,  they  w^ere  scarcely  relations, 
and,  being  of  a  difierent  school  to  the  Mellbrds,  could 
ailbrd  to  admire  Edmund  St.  Maur  in  spite  of  liis  poverty 
and  talent. 

The  same  post,  however,  wliich  brought  Lady  Ida  such 
blessed  tidings  from  Italy,  also  gave  letters  from  the  Edge- 
meres,  announcing  their  intention  of  accepting  Lady  Mel- 
ford's  invitation  to  St.  John's  for  the  ensumg  Easter,  and 
that  the  period  of  their  visit  to  the  continent  was  entirely 
dependent  oi*  Ida's  will. 

Great,  indeed,  was  the  rehef  and  joy  this  information 
gave  to  her  mind  ;  and  w^hen  the  excitement  of  answer- 
ing these  all-important  epistles  was  over — when  she  had 
poured  forth  her  whole  soul  to  her  betrothed,  peremptorily, 
though  with  inexpressible  tenderness,  forbidding  his  return 
to  England  ;  teUing  him  that  hi  three  months  (perhaps 
less)  Lord  Edgemere's  family  would  be  at  Kice,  and  he 
might  chance  to  find  her  with  them,  never  to  part  from 
him  again  in  this  life  ;  with  many  other  breathmgs  of  that 
fond  heart,  too  sacred  for  any  eye  save  liis  to  whom  they 
were  addressed — when  she  had  written  to  Lady  Mary,  in 
all  the  confidence  their  mutual  friendship  demanded,  in- 
treating  her  to  make  haste  down  to  Devonslhre,  as  she 
longed  for  some  one  to  whom  she  might  speak  of  Edmund 
and  her  future  prospects,  since  she  felt  sometimes  as  if 
her  spirit  must  bend  beneath  its  weight  of  grief,  anxiety, 
and  now  of  joy,  referring  her  to  her  letter  to  Lord  Edge- 


40  woman's  friendship. 

mere  concerning  her  wishes  for  speedy  dcpartuie  — when 
all  these  weighty  matters  were  arranged,  Ida  had  leisure 
to  remember,  and  inclination  to  pcrlbrm  her  promise  to 
her  cousins  ;  and  telling  Emily  she  must  take  every  trouble 
off  her  hands,  by  collecting  the  multiplicity  of  invitations 
she  had  received,  and  inviting  every  one  whom  she  ought 
to  invite,  she  gave  her  and  Alfred  carie  Handle^  to  arrange, 
order,  and  collect  every  thing  for  the  furtherance  of  theii 
wishes,  that  the  ball  might  be  in  truth  the  recherche,  the 
refined,  the  elegant  reflection  of  all  the  fashion,  grace,  and 
dignity  they  were  pleased  to  attribute  to  herself. 

It  was  marvellous  to  see  how  rapidly  Emily  Melforvl's 
ennui  passed  away  before  tliis  very  delightful  employment, 
though  she  made  so  much  bustle  and  confusion  in  her 
preparations,  as  greatly  to  annoy  and  torment  her  sister 
Georgiana,  who  imagined  herself  far  too  hterary  and  wise 
to  care  for  such  frivolous  things  :  besides  which,  it  was 
a  woeful  falling  off  to  her  consequence,  that  Lady  Ida  had 
the  power  of  making  herself  so  exceedingly  agreeable  to  the 
simple  country  folks,  among  whom  Miss  Melford  had  reigned 
an  oracle,  a  star,  brighter  than  she  had  ever  shone  in 
London  :  and  worse  still,  it  was  only  Emily  and  Alfred  with 
whom  she  could  quarrel,  for  Ida  was  so  quiet  in  the  midst 
of  it  all,  so  faithful  to  her  own  boudoir  and  its  refined 
amusements,  that  she  looked  in  vain  for  some  annoyance 
wherewith  to  charge  her. 

And  v/here  Avas  Florence  Leslie  all  this  time  ?  Still 
with  her  parents'  free  and  glad  consent,  lingering  by  the 
side  of  Lady  Ida,  imbibing  improvement,  alike  morally 
and  mentally,  from  lips  to  which  harshness  and  unkiiHl- 
ness  were  such  utter  strangers,  that  the  severest  truths 
seemed  sweet,  the  boldly  uttered  reproof  scarcely  paijv  ; 
but  there  was  a  secret  alloy,  scared}''  acknowledged  evt^n 
to  herself,  in  her  brightest  anticipations.  The  more  h^r 
young  and  most  ardent  affections  twined  themselves 
round  one  whose  notice  would  evince  they  were  not  d*>s- 
pised,  the  more  she  felt  the  truth  of  her  mother's  word^^ 
that  it  would  have  been  more  for  her  lasting  happiness 
had  Lady  Ida's  rank  been  nearer  her  own.  She  had  J^ot 
feit  this  when  thrown,  as  they  were,  so  intimately  togeth^'r ; 
but  when  she  heard  her  speak  of  the  friends  she  exppGt*»d 


WOMAN'y    FllIENDSIIIP.  41 

almost  all  of  tliem  of  her  own  rank,  and  dear  from  long 
years  of  intimacy,  there  would  intrude  the  thought,  what 
could  she,  a  simple  country  girl,  be  to  her,  when  Lady  Ida 
was  in  Italy  a  happy  wife,  or  in  England  surrounded  by 
her  own  friends.  But  though  the  thought  of  the  future 
would  sometimes  silently  and  sadly  shade  the  delight  of 
the  present,  she  continued  to  rejoice  in  hstening  to  her 
"words,  in  learning  lessons  of  self-knowledge  by  the  study 
of  Lady  Ida's  liigher  cast  of  character,  and  determined 
to  coiTCct  all  those  youthful  weaknesses  and  failings  of 
which  she  became  conscious  in  herself  by  their  total  ex- 
clusion from  her  friend  ;  and  the  wish  to  become  more 
worthy  of  regard,  of  esteem,  till  Lady  Ida  could  look  upon 
her  in  the  light  of  a  friend,  not  merely  as  an  affectionate, 
playful  girl,  scarcely  passed  childhood,  pervaded  her  whole 
being. 

It  is  the  fashion  to  deride  woman's  influence  over 
woman,  to  laugh  at  female  friendship,  to  look  with  scorn 
on  all  those  who  profess  it ;  but  perhaps  the  world  at  large 
little  knows  the  efiect  of  this  influence — how  often  the  un- 
formed character  of  a  young,  timid,  and  gentle  girl,  may 
be  influenced  for  good  or  evil  by  the  power  of  an  intimate 
female  friend.  There  is  always  to  me  a  doubt  of  the 
warmth,  the  strength,  and  purity  of  her  feelmgs,  when  a 
young  girl  merges  into  womanhood,  passing  over  the 
thieshold  of  actual  hfe,  seeking  only  the  admiration  of  the 
other  sex ;  watching,  pining  for  a  husband,  or  lovers, 
perhaps,  and  looking  down  on  all  female  friendship  as 
romance  and  folly.  'No  young  spirit  was  ever  yet  satisfied 
with  the  love  of  nature.  Friendship,  or  love,  gratifies  self- 
love  ;  for  it  tacitly  acknowledges  that  we  must  possess 
some  good  qualities  to  attract  beyond  the  mere  love  of 
nature.  Coleridge  justly  observes — "  that  it  is  well  ordered 
that  the  amiable  and  estimable  should  have  a  fainter  per- 
ception of  their  o^vn  qualities  than  their  friends  have, 
otherwise  they  would  love  themselves."  ISTow,  friend- 
Ehip,  or  love,  permits  their  doing  this  unconsciously  ; 
mutual  affection  is  a  tacit  avowal  and  appreciation  of 
mutual  good  qualities — ^perhaps  friendship  yet  more  than 
love  ;  for  the  latter  is  far  more  an  aspiration,  a  passion, 
than  the  former,  and  influences  the  permanent  charactoi 


42  woman's     FRIENDSni>„ 

much  less.  Under  the  magic  of  love,  a  girl  is  generallj 
in  a  feverish  state  of  excitement,  often  in  a  v^^rong  position, 
deeming  herself  the  goddess,  her  lover  the  adorer  ;  whereaS; 
it  is  her  will  that  must  bend  to  his,  herself  be  abnegated 
for  him.  Friendship  neither  permits  the  former  nor  de- 
mands the  latter.  It  influences  silently,  often  micon- 
Bciously ;  perhaps  its  power  is  never  knowTi  till-  years 
afterAvards.  A  girl  who  stands  alone,  without  acting  or 
feeling  friendship,  is  generally  a  cold  unamiabie  being,  so 
WTapt  in  self  as  to  have  no  room  for  any  person  else, 
except,  perhaps,  a  lover,  whom  she  only  seeks  and  values, 
as  offering  his  devotion  to  that  same  idol,  self  Female 
friendship  may  be  abused,  may  be  but  a  name  for  gossip, 
letter-writing,  romance,  nay  worse,  for  absolute  evil ;  but 
that  Shakspeare,  the  mighty  wizard  of  human  hearts, 
thought  highly  and  beautifully  of  female  friendship,  we 
have  his  exquisite  portraits  of  Rosalind  and  Ceha,  Helen 
and  the  Countess,  undeniable  to  prove  ;  and  if  he,  who 
could  portray  every  human  passion,  every  subtle  feeling  of 
humanity,  from  the  whelming  tempest  of  love  to  the 
fiendish  influences  of  envy  and  jealousy  and  hate  ;  from 
the  incomprehensible  mystery  of  Hamlet's  wondrous  spirit, 
to  the  simplicity  of  the  gentle  Miranda,  the  dove-like 
innocence  of  Ophelia,  who  could  be  crushed  by  her  weight 
of  love,  but  not  reveal  it ;  if  Shakspeare  scorned  not  to 
picture  the  sweet  influence  of  female  friendship,  shall 
women  pass  it  by  as  a  theme  too  tame,  too  idle  for  their 
pens.  A  late  work,  though  of  the  lightest  novel  kind, 
has  powerfully  shown  the  fearful  evil  that  may  be  accom- 
phshed  by  woman  upon  woman.  Our  simple  tale  would 
prove  the  good.  How  consoling  and  how  beautiful  may 
be  "  woman's  mission,"  even  unto  woman. 

There  was  not  a  particle  of  selfishness  in  Florence 
Leslie's  feelings,  for  at  the  very  moment  she  wept  in 
secret  over  her  own  fast  fading  joys,  she  rejoiced  with 
the  most  unfeigned  pleasure  that  Lady  Ida's  term  ol 
anxiety  was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  could  she  in  any  way 
have  hastened  her  meeting  with  Edmund  St.  Maur,  she 
would  have  done  so  gladly. 

Still  the  idea  of  a  ball,  and  given  by  Lady  Ida,  and  yet 
mere,  that  her  tasto,  simple  as  it  was,  had  been  more  than 


woman's  friendship.  43 

unte  consulted  and  even  followed  in  the  decoration  of 
rooms,  etc.  ;  the  very  fact  that  Lady  Ida  had  asked  her  if 
she  would  like  the  ball  to  be  given  before  she  answered 
her  cousin's  entreaties,  and  evidently  thought  of  her  pleas- 
ure in  so  domg — all  this  was  dehghtful ;  and,  in  ^^dtness- 
mg  her  heartless,  ahnost  childish  effusions  of  joy.  Lady 
Ida  felt  as  if  her  consent  to  an  exertion  for  wliich  she  had 
rery  little  inchnation  was  amply  repaid. 


CHAPTER  Vn. 

F.OME    DUTIES. AN   ANXIOUS    THOUGHT. THE    BALL    DRE:5S, 

The  invitations  for  Lady  Ida's  ball  were  dispatched, 
giving  full  four  weeks'  notice  ;  and  no  little  amusement 
did  Alfred  and  Emily  Melford  promise  themselves,  in 
quizzing  the  heterogeneous  mass  of  quality,  real  and 
affected,  whom  they  should  succeed  in  mustering  together. 
In  vain  did  Lady  Ida  remonstrate  against  this  flippancy, 
declaring  that  all  whom  they  had  invited  should  receive 
the  same  courtesy  as  titled  guests.  H§r  cousins  would 
have  their  joke. 

.  About  a  week  after  the  invitations  had  been  issued. 
Lady  Ida  received  a  note  from  Florence,  stating  that  her 
mother  had  had  an  unusually  severe  attack  of  illness,  and 
though  she  trusted  all  danger  would  pass  away,  as  it  had 
often  done  before,  she  dared  not  hope  to  take  any  part  in 
the  intended  amusements.  Trusting  that  Florence's  natu- 
ral anxiety  had  magnified  her  fears,  Lady  Ida  answered 
this  note  in  person  ;  and  though  she  could  not  succeed  in 
making  the  young  girl  hopeful  as  herself,  her  kmdly  sym- 
pathy so  far  roused  her  drooping  energies  as  to  check  the 
indulgence  of  sorrow,  to  which  she  was  perhaps  too  natu 
rally  prone,  and  made  her  feel  no  longer  incapacitated 
from,  serving  as  well  as  watching  the  beloved  invahd. 

'•  Your  mother  will  do  so  well,  dearest  Florence,  I  shall 
still  have  you  to  dance  at  my  ball,"  was  Lady  Ida's  playful 
farewell,  after  no  short  visit ;  but  Florence  answered  with 
0,  mournful  shake  of  the  head 


44  woman's  friendsuip 

"  oil  no,  I  do  not  think  of  it.  If  mamma  is  well 
enough  to  admit  even  the  possibihty  of  my  coming,  it  ynU. 
be  quite  happiness  enough.  Besides,"  she  added,  with  a 
deep  blusli,  but  unable  to  control  her  own  ingenuousness, 
"  I  am  not  like  you,  Lady  Ida;  I  am  my  o^^^l  sempstress  on 
such  occasions ;  and  I  have  neither  time  nor  inclination  to 
give  to  such  things  now." 

Lady  Ida  kissed  her  blushing  cheek,  and  simply  saying-, 
"  You  are  a  dear,  truthful  girl,  Florence,  and  need  not  blush 
BO  prettily  about  it,"  departed. 

Days  passed,  and  Mrs.  Leslie  slowly  rallied  ;  but  Flor- 
ence remained  true  to  her  own  unselllsh  nature.  She 
nursed  her  mother,  cheered  her  father ;  WTote  all  the? 
letters  to  "Walter,  that  he  might  not  be  anxious ;  and  super- 
intended Minie's  studies ;  so  that  the  economy  of  their 
small,  but  happy  household,  should  go  on  the  same.  And 
often  did  her  father  press  her  to  his  bosom,  and  declare 
she  was  indeed  a  ccmfort  to  them  all.  There  was  at  such 
times  that  peculiar  expression  of  sweet,  thougn  inournful, 
satisfaction  on  Mrs.  Leslie's  features  which  we  nave  be'Coi'e 
noticed ;  and  Florence  would  have  wonderea  had  she 
witnessed  the  agitation  of  her  mother  as  Mr.  Leslie,  on 
her  leaving  the  ^room,  bent  over  the  invalid's  couch,  and 
whispered  fondly,  "I  have  indeed  secured  a  treasure  in 
listening  to  your  request,  my  best  beloved.  Oh  that  oui 
own  Minie  may  walk  in  her  paths,  and  give  us  equa^ 
comfort." 

Mrs.  Leslie  only  pressed  his  hand  convulsively,  and 
seemed  imploring  him  by  her  looks  not  to  give  utterance 
to  the  thought,  however  precious  it  might  be. 

"  Nay,  you  are  too  morbidly  sensitive  on  this  point,  love,' 
he  replied.  "  I  wish  I  could  understand  your  fear,  and 
so  soothe  and  remove  it." 

"You  cannot,  Edward,"  was  the  agitated  reply;  "it  ia 
peculiarly  a  woman's.  You  think  of  our  sweet  Florence 
as  she  is  to  us,  to  Walter,  to  Minie  ;  to  all  with  whom,  aa 
a  child,  she  associates ;  but  my  fears  look  beyond.  She 
must  love  ;  she  may  be  loved,  sought,  asked  for  ;  and  can 
we,  dare  we,  peniiit  her  to  enter  the  solemn  engagement 
of  marriage  without  revealing " 

"Wait  till  the  evil  comes,"  interrupted    her  husband, 


woman's  friendship.  45 

aflectionately  Kissing  her.  "  I  have  no  such  fearful  appre- 
hensions ;  and,  even  in  such  an  alternative,  would  act  as  1 
do  now,  conscientiously  believing  there  would  be  more 
virtue  in  so  doing  than  in  condemning  one  so  pure  and 
good  to  suffering  and  misery,  which  the  truth,  however 
Boftened,  must  produce." 

The  day  before  the  eventful  Thursday,  Mr.  Leslie  ob- 
served to  his  daughter,  as  he  was  going  out  after  breakfast, 
"  Your  mother  is  so  much  better,  my  dear  girl.  You  will 
go  with  me  to  Lady  Ida's  ball,  will  you  not  ?" 

*'  I  cannot,  dear  papa." 

"  But  I  am  sure  your  mother  would  prefer  having  only 
Minie  for  a  companion  for  a  few  hours,  than  that  you 
should  lose  so  great  a  pleasure." 

"  I  know  she  would,  paj)a.  Mine  is  quite  a  feminine 
reason,  so  pray  do  not  laugh  at  me.  I  have  no  proper 
dress,  and  I  could  not  be  so  disrespectful  to  Lady  Ida  as 
to  appear  plainly  attired." 

"  But,  my  dear  child,  why  have  you  not  a  dress  ?" 

"  Because  I  was  too  premature  in  my  preparations,  and 
so  am  punished  for  my  vanity.  I  knew  of  this  ball  a  full 
fortnight  before  the  invitations  were  given,  and  to  be  quite 
ready  I  destroyed  a  dress,  that  might  in  an  extremity  have 
done,  to  make  use  of  the  beautiful  lace  which  was  on  it 
for  another.  That  other  I  have  not  had  time  to  make, 
and  so  you  see,  dear  papa,  I  am  compelled  to  stay  at 
home." 

"  But  Vv^hy  not  get  it  made,  my  Florence  ?  Surely  you 
do  not  imagine  I  could  grudge  you  such  an  indulgence?" 

"  No  papa.  If  I  had  thought  so,  perhaps  I  would  have 
been  tempted  to  think  only  of  myself ;  but  I  knew  I  had 
but  to  ask  and  have,  and  so  it  was  easy  not  to  ask.  And 
then,  the  first  fortnight  I  really  did  not  think  at  all  about 
it ;  and  I  v/as  still  much  too  anxious  when  I  saw  mamma 
getting  better.  I  own  I  did  wish  it  were  possible  to  have 
my  dress  ready,  but  then  I  knew  I  could  not  make  it  with- 
out neglecting  Minie  and  Walter,  and  perhaps  even  mamma  ; 
and  I  would  not  expose  myself  to  such  a  temptation.  No, 
i'iar  papa,  I  shall  be  much  happier  at  home  on  Thursday 
night  thau  going  to  St.  John's  with  the  recollection  of  so 
many  duties  unperformed." 


46  woman's   friendship. 

"  I  quite  believe  you,  my  sweet  child ;  but  still  I  gricvii 
you  did  not  come  to  me.  Did  you  never  think  of  such  a 
thing?" 

*'  Oh  yes,  more  than  once  ;  but  how  could  I  teaze  you 
with  such  a  trifle  when  you  were  so  anxious  about  mamma  , 
and  I  know  Walter's  being  from  home  increases  your  ex- 
penses very  materially ;  and  you  look  so  careworn  some- 
times. Why,  the  ball  were  not  v/ortli  the  pain  it  would 
have  been  lor  you  to  fancy  your  Florence  regardless  of  these 
things." 

*'  You  are  careful  of  every  one,  every  thing  but  yourself, 
my  child.  Would  I  had  thought  of  this  before,  for  I 
cannot  bear  you  should  lose  such  a  pleasure.  It  is  too  late 
now." 

"  Q/uite,  quite  too  late,  papa;  so  do  not  be  so  cruel  as  to 
turn  tempter,"  replied  Florence,  smiling  and  throwing  her 
arms  round  his  neck  to  kiss  him ;  then  bounding  from  the 
room  to  conceal  that,  in  spite  of  all  her  assurances,  in  spite 
of  even  the  still  small  voice  of  conscience  sounding  again 
and  again  "  You  have  done  your  duty,  be  happy  Florence  ?" 
still,  child  as  she  was  in  feeling,  in  enjoyment  (perhaps  we 
should  not  say  child,  for  youth  is  far  more  susceptible  of  the 
pleasure  of  life  than  childhood)  Florence  was  disappointed, 
and  very  painfully. 

When  under  the  first  excitement  of  conquering  inchna- 
tion,  that  duty  should  triumph,  there  is  an  infused  strength 
even  in  trifles  such  as  these ;  but  there  never  yet  was  any 
such  self-conquest  which  was  wholly  joy,  as  some  good 
but  cold-hearted  people  declare.  There  is  generally  a 
revulsion  of  feeling,  occasioning  a  doubt  as  to  whether  or 
not  we  need  have  acted  as  we  have  done  ;  and  then,  as  all 
excitement  overstrains  the  nervous  system,  the  blood 
flows  less  equally,  and  affects  us  mentally,  so  that  de- 
pression and  dissatisfaction  for  a  while  too  often  follow 
even  a  duty  done.  And  so  it  was  with  our  young  heroine  ; 
she  felt  all  she  had  told  her  father,  but  now  the  tormenting 
thought  would  come,  that  perhaps  she  could  have  attended 
to  her  duties  and  gone  to  the  ball  also  ;  and  that  she  had 
made  a  sacrifice,  and  rejoiced  in  her  strength  to  do  so, 
when  there  was  really  no  necessity  for  it.     She  was  weary 


47 

lOO  ;  for  her  mother's  iUness,  and  her  own  inuuiplied 
duties,  had  prevented  her  customary  daily  walks,  and 
mental  recreation  ;  and  her  head  ached — thai  gnawing 
nervous  pain,  so  difficult  to  bear  because  it  is  not  bad 
enough  to  complain  of,  or  do  anything  to  reheve.  And 
so  our  poor  Florence  was  weak  enough,  when  quite  alone, 
to  indulge  in  a  hearty  fit  of  tears  ;  but  this  was  not  of 
long  contmuance  ;  she  very  soon  conquered  what  she  felt 
was  selfi-sh  folly,  and  hastened  down  to  their  little  study 
to  attend  to  her  sister's  impatient  call,  and  supermtend  hei 
morning  lessons. 

But  Florence  was  not  to  be  steadily  employed  that  aay  ; 
Lady  Ida  came  to  inquire  after  -^Mrs.  Leslie  as  usual,  to 
introduce  her  particular  friend,  Lady  Mary  Yilliers,  to  the 
pretty  cottage  and  its  interesting  inmates,  and  to  carry  ofl 
Florence  for  a  drive.  The  pure  fresh  air,  the  beautiful 
country,  the  freedom  from  care,  and  above  all  the  intel- 
lectual rest  and  enjoyment  springmg  from  the  society  ol 
refined  and  accomplished  minds — all  did  the  young  girl 
good,  and  caused  her  to  converse  with  her  natural  liveliness 
and  animation. 

"  You  are  right,  Ida  ;  Miss  Leslie  is  worthy  of  youi 
interest  ;  even  I  allow  it,"  said  Lady  Mary,  when  Flo- 
rence left  them  ;  "  but  I  am  sorry  you  have  made  hei 
love  you  ,  widely  separated  as  you  must  be  in  so  short  a 
time." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  remain  in  Italy  for  ever  Mary  ;  so 
why  should  not  my  interest  in  Florence  continue  ?" 

"  Because  I  have  no  faith  in  an  interest  such  as  tliis 
continuing  through  tune  and  separation.  It  is  not  absence 
which  severs  friends,  but  changes  in  heart,  and  mind,  and 
position.  You  cannot  return  to  England  as  you  leave  it ; 
you  will  have  new  ties,  new  interests,  which  must  weaken 
former  ones." 

"  You  believe,  then,  that  absence  is  really  what  some 
poet,  I  thinlc,  called  it,  '  the  grave  of  love  ?'  " 

"  No  ;  but  that  it  is  very  often  the  grave  of  s}Tiipathy 
— ^not  with  those  whose  spheres  of  action  and  position 
are  the  same,  as  ours  are  ;  but  fancy  you  and  Florence 
both  in  London  a  few  years  hence — with  interests,  duties, 
occupations,  each  as  distinct  as  one  planet  from  another. 


48  woman's    friendship 

What  can  you  be  to  her  but  a  source  of  yearning  and  of 
pain?" 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  at  this  moment,  Mary,  but  time  will 
show.  You  know  I  have  many  strange  fancies,  and  one 
is  that  women  do  not  do  half  as  much  as  they  might  do  for 
each  other  ;  they  are  too  often  influenced  by  such  petty 
jealousies,  detraction^  envy — things  I  abhor.  I  may  still 
be  Florence's  friend,  even  in  London,  and  widely  severed 
in  position,  as  you  say  we  shall  be.  Now  do  not  look  so 
solemnly  incredulous  ;  all  things  are  possible  if  we  would 
but  think  so,  and  exert  some  degree  of  energy  in  brmging 
them  about." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

A   SLTvFEISE    FOR    FLOEENCE. THE    GIFT. 

The  eventful  night  at  length  arrived.  Mr.  Leslie,  who 
had  received  an  invitation  from  Lord  Melfcrd  to  dine  with 
some  other  gentlemen  at  St.  John's,  went ;  but  all  his  in- 
tended enjoyment  was  clouded  because  Florence  could 
not  join  him.  Mrs.  Leslie  was  yet  more  grieved,  re- 
proaching herself  for  never  having  thought  what  Florence 
might  need ;  forgetting,  now  that  she  was  almost  as  well 
as  usual,  all  the  deeply  anxious  thoughts  which  had  en- 
grossed her,  when  she  anticipated  death — anxiety,  not 
for  herself,  for  her  trust  was  fixed  on  the  Hock  of  ages. 
But  she  was  a  wife  and  mother  ;  she  knew  her  husband's 
causes  of  anxiety  almost  better  than  he  did  himself; 
and  there  was  one  care,  peculiarly  her  own,  which  ren- 
dered the  idea  of  death  one  of  intense  suffering ;  for  Minie 
and  Walter  it  was  simply  the  thought  of  separation ; 
but  for  Florence,  the  most  incongruous,  the  most  myste- 
rious emotions  were  concentrated  in  one  feeUng  of  anxious 
anguish,  which  none  but  her  God  could  penetrate  and 
soothe. 

With  such  reflections,  united  to  intense  bodily  pain  and 
prostrating  weakness,  it  was  no  matter  of  wonder  that 
liady    Ida's    ball    and    the    necessary    arrangements    for 


WOMAN    S    FRIENDSHIP.  49 

f  lorenco  should  have  enth'ely  escaped  her  memory  till  it 
was  too  late  for  the  evil  to  be  remedied.  The  disappoint- 
ment itself  she  knew  was  of  no  real  consequence  ;  hut  Mrs. 
Leslie  was  not  one  of  those  harshly-nurtured  spirits  who 
trample  on  the  sweet  flowers  of  youthful  life  without  one 
remorseful  pang ;  she  knew  how  soon,  how  very  soon  the 
lovely  buds  'fade  of  themselves ;  and  she  trembled  lest 
harsher  duties  should  demand  in  Florence  the  crushmg  of 
youth  scd  all  its  dreams  years  before  their  time.  And  so 
full  cf  re^gi^t  ?^as  her  caressing  manner  that  evening,  that 
Florence,  even  had  she  felt  any  remaining  depression, 
would  have  eflectually  concealed  it ;  but  the  sweet  reward 
of  duty  was  once  more  her  own,  and  animated  and  gay, 
siie  speedily  proved  that  the  sacrifice  was  absolutely  noth- 
ing— when  compared  to  her  mother's  comfort  and  enjoy- 
ment. 

It  was  the  first  evening  Mrs.  Leslie  had  left  her  cham- 
ber, and  resumed  her  couch  in  the  sitting-room,  an  event 
inexpressibly  cheering  to  Florence,  who  always  declared 
the  house  was  desolate  when  her  mother  was  upstairs. 
Once  more  the  sweet  carol  of  Minie's  voice  enUvened  the 
evening  hours ;  song  after  song  poured  forth  from  the 
child's  lips,  with  a  sweetness,  a  richness,  a  purity  abso- 
'utely  thrilling.  It  was  eight  o'clock  when  they  closed 
the  piano-forte,  and  Florence,  petitionmg  a  longer  vigil  for 
Minie,  opened  Miss  Austin's  entertaining  "  Mansfield 
Park,"  and  began,  at  her  mother's  wish,  to  read  it  aloud. 

They  had  been  thus  employed  about  half  an  hour,  when 
a  carriage  drove  up  to  the  gate,  and  a  respectable  old  dame 
who  had  been  Minie's  nurse,  and  continued  the  humble 
friend  of  the  family,  bustled  into  the  apartment,  with  a 
comical  lock  of  pleasant  intelligence,  which  excited  the 
curiosity  not  only  of  the  two  girls,  but  of  Mrs.  Leslie 
herself  No  answer  to  the  varied  queries,  however,  would 
Nurse  Wilmot  vouchsafe,  but  she  dehberately  drew  forth 
a  note,  and  presented  it  to  Florence,  who,  with  an  ex- 
clamation of  astonishment,  tore  it  open  and  read  a?  fol« 
lows : — 

"  Your  father  tells  me,  my  dear  Florence,  that  your 
mother  is  quite  well  enough  for  you  to  leave  her  to-night, 

5 


50  woman's   friendship. 

and  I  have  therefore  sent  my  carriage  for  you,  and  must 
insist  on  your  donning  bonnet  and  shawl,  and  coming  just 
as  you  are.  "VYilUam  has  orders  to  bring  you  to  the  sido 
entrance,  where  you  know  a  private  staircase  leads  to  my 
rooms.  Do  not  be  frightened  at  the  string  of  carriages 
which  may  throng  the  front  door  ;  your  path  will  be  quite 
invisible.  Go  directly  into  my  dressing-room,  where  you 
will  find  Alice  'v\dth  all  the  necessaries  for  your  toilette, 
and  I  will  come  for  you  when  it  is  completed.  I  send 
your  dear  old  nurse,  Mrs.  Wilmot,  who  will  remain  wdth 
your  mother  till  to-morrow  evenmg,  that  you  may  leave 
her  without  any  apprehension,  for  of  course  you  sleep  at 
the  Hall.  Now  do  not  stay  to  hesitate  ;  I  will  never  for- 
give you  if  you  disobey  me.  "  Ida." 

"  Necessaries  for  my  toilette  I  "What  can  she  mean  ?  I 
have  not  a  single  dress  at  St.  John's,"  was  the  bewildered 
speech  of  Florence,  as  she  concluded ;  and  then,  as  the 
real  truth  seemed  to  flash  upon  her  through  Mrs.  Leshe's 
fond,  rejoicing  look,  she  threw  her  arms  around  her  mother's 
neck,  and  burst  into  tears.  But  the  wild  delight  of  Minie, 
who,  clapping  her  hands  and  jumping  about  the  room,  in- 
sisted that  Florence  was  very  foolish  to  cry,  and  make  her 
eyes  red,  when  she  ought  only  to  be  glad,  and  Mrs. 
Leshe's  caressmg  sympathy,  soon  removed  all  trace  of 
these  incomprehensible  tears ;  and  hastily  shawled  and 
bomietted  by  the  active  care  of  Mrs.  "\Yilmot,  who  gos- 
siped all  the  time  of  the  beautiful  things  she  had  seen  at 
St.  John's,  where  she  had  been  since  six  o'clock,  and  the 
kind  care  of  Ahce,  and  the  affability  of  Lady  Ida,  and 
how  kindly  she  had  spoken  of  Miss  Florence,  with  an 
endless  etc.,  Florence  was  soon  ensconced  in  the  carriage, 
and  rollmg  rapidl}  to  St.  John's.  It  seemed  a  shortei 
ride  than  usual,  for  her  thoughts  were  very  busy,  and 
excessive  timidity  struggled  with  pleasure.  Ahce,  with 
provident  kindness,  had  stationed  herself  ready  to  receive 
and  conduct  her  with  aU  speed  to  her  lady's  dressing 
room. 

True  dignity  was  never  yet  attended  by  uisolence  oi 
presumption.  Ahce  had  been  an  mmate  of  the. late  Lord 
Edgemere's  famUy  for  above  eight-and-twenty  years,  and 


WOMAN    S    FR    END  SHIP.  51 

every  year  increased  lier  devotion  for  the  gentle  being 
w^hose  birth  she  had  witnessed,  and  whom,  she  had  tended 
from  her  youth.  All  whom  Lady  Ida  honored  with  her 
regard  became  objects  of  interest  to  herself. 

Florence  was  speedily  attired  in  the  graceful  robe  of 
India  muslin,  so  transparent  in  its  delicate  texture  as  to 
display  the  pure  white  satin  folds  beneath ;  the  tiny 
slippers  to  correspond ;  the  delicate  white  glove ;  and 
every  article  fitting  so  admirably,  and  made  so  simply,  in 
such  perfect  accordance  with  her  age  and  station,  that 
Florence's  peculiarly  sensitive  mind  could  only  feel  re- 
lieved. Her  beautiful  hair  received  a  new  grace  and 
polish  from  the  skilful  hand  of  Alice ;  a  single  white 
camelia,  with  its  drooping  bud,  plucked  fresh  for  the 
occasion,  gleamed  like  a  star  amid  those  jetty  tresses  so 
purely,  so  freshly  beautiful,  it  seemed  fit  emblem  of  the 
gentle  girl  whom  it  adorned.  A  chain  of  beautiful  work- 
manship, with  its  Sevigne  and  suspended  Maltese  cross, 
the  centre  of  which,  as  the  Sevigne,  was  simply  yet  ele- 
gantly set  with  valuable  emeralds,  was  her  only  ornament ; 
and  even  from  this  Florence  sensitively  shrunk,  asking 
kindly  if  Lady  Ida  particularly  wished  her  to  wear  it. 
She  need  not,  Alice  said,  if  she  did  not  like  ;  but,  as 
it  was  intended  as  a  keepsake  from  her  lady  to  Miss 
Leslie,  she  thought  Lady  Ida  v/ould  be  disappointed  if  it 
were  not  worn  ;  and,  touching  a  spring  in  the  cross  as  she 
spoke,  a  locket  was  disclosed,  containing  a  braid  of  dark, 
chestnut  hair,  with  the  letters  F.  L.  from  I.  V.  delicately 
engraved  upon  it.  The  eyes  of  Florence  again  glistened, 
but  she  made  no  further  objection  to  having  it  secured 
round  her  throat,  playfully  answering  Alice's  unchecked 
admiration  of  her  appearance  by  the  assurance  that  it 
must  be  all  her  care,  and  Lady  Ida's  kindness,  which  had 
caused  her  to  look  well,  that  her  own  proper  self  had 
nothing  to  do  v/ith  it  whatever. 

Unconsciously  she  remain(?d  standing  opposite  the  large 
pier-glass  when  Alice  had  departed,  thinking  far  more  of 
the  kindness  she  had  received  than  of  her  own  graceful 
figure  and  sweetly  expressive  face,  of  whose  real  charm 
she  was  in  truth  totally  ignorant,  for  she  knew  she  was 
not  beautiful ;  and  that  she  possessed  intellect  and  sensi- 


52  woman's    FRIENDSIIir. 

bility  enoiigli  to  make  a  far  plainer  face  attractive,  wm 
equally  unknown. 

"  AYell,  Florence,  have  I  done  for  you  as  Avell  as  you 
could  have  done  for  yourself?"  v^'as  the  playful  address 
which  roused  her  froan  her  reverie  ;  and,  springing  for- 
ward, Florence  could  only  exclaim,  "  Oh,  Lady  Ida,  why 
are  you  so  kind  ?" 

"  Why  dearest,  because  it  is  a  real  pleasure  to  think  for 
Ihose  who  never  tliink  of  themselves  ;  and  just  now,  that 
my  pleasures  are  so  limited,  you  must  not  grudge  me  this. 
Now  do  not  look  at  me  half  sorrowfully  w^hen  I  mean  you 
to  be  the  very  happiest  person  in  the  ball-room  to-night ; 
you  are  as  awe-struck  at  my  diamonds  and  satin  robe,  as 
you  were  when  I  first  came  down,  because  I  was  an  earl's 
daughter.  You  little  simpleton  ;  my  rank  may  be  some- 
what higher,  but  what  do  I  exact  then — only  obedience  in 
all  things  even  to  the  keeping  and  wearing  that  cham  and 
cross  for  my  sake,  "vvithout  any  pride  in  that  haughty  little 
spirit  rising  up  against  it." 

•*  Haughty  I  dear  Lady  Ida  ?     Do  not  say  so." 

"  Indeed  I  will,  for  you  know  it  to  be  truth  ;  but  come, 
for  I  must  not  be  missed  from  the  ball-room.  Emily's 
last  note  told  you,  did  it  not  ?  that  the  idea  of  tableaux  was 
given  up  till  another  night,  as  being  incompatible  with 
my  uncle's  dinner  and  the  ball ;  so  you  see  you  must  play 
your  part  still,  notwithstanduig  you  thought  to  eschew  it 
so  nicely." 

Re-assured,  happy  beyond  all  expression,  even  her 
timidity  soothed  by  Lady  Ida's  caressing  manner,  Florence 
laughingly  replied ;  and  they  proceeded  to  the  splendidly 
lighted  suite  of  rooms  whence  the  alternate  quadrille  and 
waltz  were  most  inspiritingly  sounding.  It  was  the  sur- 
passing loveliness,  the  peculiarly  quiet  air  of  real  aristo- 
cratic dignity,  the  absence  of  all,  even  the  faintest  ap- 
proach to  affectation  or  display  in  Lady  Ida,  which  had 
struck  the  eager  heart  of  the  young  Florence  with  even 
more  than  usual  respect,  impressing  her — as  Ida's  quick 
penetration  had  discovered,  even  at  such  a  moment  ef 
pleasure — with  the  sorrowful  conviction  how  widely  they 
must  be  eventually  separated  by  their  respective  stations. 


woman's  friendship.  53 

CHAPTER  IX. 

AN  INTRODUCTION. — PRINCIPLE    TKIUMPHS   OVER    INCLINATION. 

As  Lady  Ida  and  her  companion  entered  the  ante» 
chamber,  into  which  the  ball-room  opened,  a  young  man, 
or  rather  lad,  for  his  open  collar  and  round  jacket  per- 
mitted him  no  higher  title,  though  an  elegant  figure  and 
remarkably  handsome  face  rendered  him  a  general  object 
of  attraction,  hastily  pressed  forward. 

"  Frank !"  said  Lady  Ida,  greatly  surprised,  "  "Why, 
where  ha.ve  you  dropped  from  ?  I  am  really  glai  to  see 
you,  and  to-night  particularly." 

"  Your  ladyship  honors  me,"  was  the  buoyant  reply, 
with  a  very  graceful  bow.  "  I  only  arrived  two  hours  ago, 
and  found  all  the  hotel  in  commotion  and  excitement, 
because  of  the  Lady  Ida  Villiers'  ball.  I  ventured  on  the 
plea  of  old  acquaintance,  both  with  Lady  Melford  and  your- 
self, to  come  without  invitation.     Am  I  excused?" 

"  Excused  and  welcome,  Frank,  as  you  well  know. 
Where  is  your  father  ?" 

"  In  Paris  still ;  but  as  it  is  the  season  of  merry  Easter 
in  my  grave  quarters,  I  vowed  I  would  turn  truant,  and 
visit  my  friends  in  England.  After  a  struggle  I  gained  my 
point,  and  finding  most  of  my  best  friends  in  Devonshire, 
followed  them,  and  here  I  am." 

"  And  as  you  have  3ome  in  a  time  of  festivity,  we  shall 
ail  be  doubly  glad  to  see  you.  Florence,  will  you  honor 
this  firiend  of  mme  for  the  next  quadrille  ?  But  I  forget 
you  do  not  know  each  other — Miss  Leslie,  Mr.  Francis 
Howard.  That  is  etiquette, — is  it  not  ?  Now  be  as  agree- 
able as  you  can  be,  Franlc,  in  return  for  Miss  LesUe's  con- 
descension." 

The  young  man  laughed  gayly,  seeming  not  at  all  iU 
pleased  with  the  introduction,  his  eyes  having  Hngered 
admiringly  on  Florence  all  the  time  he  spoke  to  Lady  Ida 

"  Lady  Melford,"  whispered  Florence,  "  Will  it  not  be 
rude  if  I  do  not  seek  her  first  ?" 

"  I  will  make  your  excuse.  It  will  be  easier  for  you  t( 
6* 


{)4  woman's    FRIENDSHIP. 

find  a  place  in  the  quadrille  than  my  aunt  at  present," 
was  the  reply.  "  Frank,  bring  Miss  Leslie  to  me  when 
your  dance  has  hcen  accomplished." 

•'  How  am  I  to  find  your  ladyship  ? — by  a  ti'eble  file  of 
cavalier  dcvoiiis,  sueing  your  hand  for  all  the  quadrilles  of 
the  evening?" 

*•  No,  you  foolish  boy.  I  am  a  staid,  sober  matron  for 
this  evening,  not  intending  to  dance  at  all." 

"  Not  dance  I"  exclaimed  young  Howard  and  Florence 
in  such  genuine  surprise  as  to  excite  Lady  Ida's  mirth. 

*'  Not  dance,  my  young  friends.  Now  away  with  you 
both,  for  my  will  is  like  an  ocean  rock,  net  to  be  shaken." 

Lady  Ida  stood  a  moment,  silently  watcliing  the  effect 
that  Florence  Leslie's  unexpected  appearance  would  pro- 
duce ;  not  a  little  pleased  that  the  purse-proud  Oakland 
family  were  standing  so  near  as  not  only  to  have  seen 
Florence's  debut,  leaning  familiarly  on  her  arm,  but  to 
hear  all  that  had  passed,  even  her  final  command  to  yomig 
Howard  to  bring  Florence  to  her  after  the  dance. 

"  Did  you  hear  that  ?"  whispered  Miss  Maria  to  Miss 
Elizabeth.  "Well  to  be  sure  I — titled  ladies  are  easily 
pleased.  "VYho  could  have  thought  of  that  poor  proud 
Florence  getting  mto  such  favor  ?" 

"  And  look  what  a  beautiful  chain  and  croi>s  she  has," 
was  Miss  Elizabeth's  reply.  *'  I  did  not  think  her  worth 
such  a  thing  ;  but  her  dress,  who  ever  heard  of  any  one 
coming  to  such  a  ball  as  this  in  plain  white  muslin  ?  But 
of  course,  poor  thing,  she  could  not  aflbrd  any  thing  better." 
And  she  looked  with  yet  greater  satisfaction  on  her  own 
amber-colored  satin,  flounced  and  furbelowed  to  the  knee. 

An  irresistible  smile  stole  to  Lady  Ida's  lip  as  these 
wliispered  remarks  reached  her  ear,  half  longing  for  them 
to  know  that  it  was  her  own  much  vaunted  taste  they  were 
decrymg ;  and,  scarcely  able  to  meet  with  her  wonted 
courtesy  the  eager  cringing  speeches  Vvith  which,  as  she 
passed  them,  they  saluted  her. 

Some,  however,  there  Vv^ere  who  were  really  glad  to  see 

Florence,   and  amiable  enough   to   forgive   the   favor   she 

enjoyed;  nay  more,  to  remark  how  well  she  looked,  and 

lo  witness  without  envy  Emily  Melford's  joyous  greeting, 

nd  to  see  the  young   men  of  the   Hall  approach  with 


WOMAN    S    FRIENDSHIP.  55 

eagerly  extended  hand,  and  claim  her  successively  as  theii 
partner  ;  while  others  lost  half  the  pleasure,  the  triumph 
of  being  invited  by  Lady  Ida  Villiers  to  a  .ball  because 
Florence  Leslie  was  there  too,  and  evidently  in  high  favor. 
Alas  !  for  poor  human  nature. 

"  Will  you  come  with  me,  Mr.  I-oslie  ?  I  have  a  lovely 
flower  I  want  to  show  you,"  said  Lady  Ida  playfully, 
laying  her  hand  on  that  gentleman's  arm.  as  he  stood 
talking  with  her  uncle,  and  other  gentlemen,  at  some  dis- 
tance from  the  dancers. 

"  Willingly,"  he  replied,  observing,  as  he  offered  her  his 
arm,  that  he  thought  the  conservatory  lay  in 'an  opposite 
direction. 

"  So  it  does,  my  dear  sir  ;  but  it  is  not  your  love  of 
flowers  I  am  going  to  gratify  just  now ;  unless  you  can 
find  any  charm  in  a  white  camelia  wreathed  in  a  fair 
maiden's  hair  !  The  flower  I  mean  has  just  accepted 
Frederic's  arm.  Do  you  know  her  ?  Or  shall  I  introduce 
you?" 

"  Florence  !"  exclaimed  the  dehghted  father,  in  a  tone 
that  gratified  all  Lady  Ida's  benevolent  intentions  most 
completely.  "  And  looking  so  well — so  happy  I  What 
magic  has  your  ladyship  used  ?" 

"  Wait  till  I  give  you  Florence  back  again  :  I  intend  to 
tell  you  nothing,  now,  nor  will  I  permit  her.  It  is  enough 
you  are  satisfied  that  my  power  is  more  eflicient  than  you 
thought.  You  may  greet  your  father,  Florence,  but  that 
is  all  I  p3rmit  now,"  she  added  gayly,  as,  escorted  both  by 
Frederic  Melford  and  Frank  Howard,  Florence  hastily  ap- 
proached. 

"  Ida  !  what  can  you  want  with  Miss  Leslie  ?  If  you 
are  so  determined  not  to  dance,  at  least  lay  no  prohibition 
on  her ;  but  here  is  Frank — troublesome  fellow — will  not 
give  her  up  to  me  till  he  has  given  her  back  to  you  ;  and 
she  says  she  cannot  till  she  has  spoken  with  my  mother." 

"  Well,  I  promise  you  I  will  not  detain  her  long.  Go, 
and  pay  your  devoirs  to  some  other  lady,  and  come  back  for 
her  aftel'the  next  dance.  There  is  a  Avaltz,  fortunately  for 
you  ;  so  since  Florence  does  not  waltz,  you  can  spare  her." 

"  The  next,  then,  remember  Miss  LesUo  ?"  Florence 
laughingly  assented 


56  woman's  friendship. 

"  And  after  Melford  and  his  brother,  may  I  claim  again  ?" 
asked  young  Howard  earnestly. 

"  I  believe  I  am  engaged." 

"The  next,  then?" 

Florence  assented  with  a  bright  smile.  Howard  bowei 
and  retreated. 

"  What  I  you  will  have  such  compassion  on  Frank' jJ 
round  jacket  and  open  collar,  as  to  honor  him  twice,  when 
Bo  many  dress-coats  are  romid  you,  Florence,  you  really  are 
a  novice.  Emily  would  abuse  your  bad  taste,"  laughmgly 
observed  Lady  Ida. 

"  Oh,  h^is  so  agreeable  ;  he  knows  so  much  about  Paris 
and  Itaiy — dear  Italy !  Besides,  indeed,  I  scarcely  think 
about  my  partners;  dancing  is  so  delightful  in  itself; 
though  certainly,  when  they  are  so  pleasant  as  Mr.  How- 
ard and  your  cousins,  it  is  more  delightful  still." 

"  And  so  you  forgive  the  round  jacket?" 

"  Because  it  is  the  only  part  of  the  boy  about  him." 

"  I  admire  your  discrimination  ;  he  is  much  more  worth 
talkmg  to  than  many  double  his  age.  His  father,  Lord 
Glenville,  is  a  strange,  stern  man,  and  I  often  pity  Frank's 
domestic  trials  ;  but  his  gay  spirit  carries  him  through 
them  all,  and  he  is  happy  in  spite  of  them." 

Lady  Melford  received  her  most  kindly,  making  many 
inquiries  after  her  mother,  which  enabled  Florence  to 
overcome  the  diffidence  she  felt,  as  she  encountered  so 
many  inquiring  glances,  not  from  Lady  Melford  s  resident 
guests  alone,  but  of  many  proud  families  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, who  generally  passed  her  with  very  supercihous 
notice.  The  benevolent  countenance  of  Lady  Edgemere 
attracted  her  at  once,  and  so  pleased  was  she  with  that 
lady's  flattering  notice  and  encouraging  conversation,  that 
she  was  almost  sorry  when  Frederic  Melford  came  to  claim 
her. 

"  So  you  will  not  follow  Mary's  example,  Ida  ?  On  my 
nonor  I  feel  inclined  to  scold  you  even  now,"  said  Lord 
Edgemere,  in  a  latter  part  of  the  evening,  as  cavaher  after 
cavalier  approached  liis  former  ward,  intreatingv  her  to 
danoe,  and  each  received  the  same  courteous  but  firm 
reply.  "  All  my  powers  of  oratory,  Mary's  of  persuasion, 
Lady   Edgemere's   of    argument,   your   uncle's   of    satire, 


WOMiJN'S    FRIENDSHIP.  57 

your  aunt's  of  irritation,  your  cousin's  of  torment — have 
all  been  exhausted  in  vain.  You  laugh  at  my  lengthy 
catalogue — ^liow  unfeeling,  triumphing  over  this  waste  of 
breath  I  Ida,  what  a  leport  I  will  write  Edmund  !  Now, 
there  is  the  smile  vanished,  as  if  his  very  name  demanded 
the  banishment  of  joy.  You  httle  incomprehensible 
enigma,  when  shall  I  solve  you  ?" 

"  Will  not  his  name  solve  my  reason  for  not  dancing  ?" 
inquired  Lady  Ida,  in  a  voice  so  low  and  quivering,  that 
Lord  Edgemere,  even  while  he  answered  j  estingly,  pressed 
the  delicate  hand  which  rested  on  his  arm. 

"  Truly  it  will  not,  for  Edmund  loved  to  watch  your 
graceful  movements  in  the  dance,  even  when  he  could  not 
join  in  it  himself" 

"  And  while  I  am  dancing,  listening,  perhaps,  to  a  dozeu 
unmeaning  speeches,  attracting  the  attention  of  every  eye, 
because,  of  course,  as  Lady  Ida  Villiers,  I  might  not  hope 
to  go  through  a  crowded  quadrille  unremai%ed — ^lie  may 
be  ill,  and  in  lonely  sorrow,  the  void  in  his  faithful  heart 
unfilled,  even  by  his  most-loved  studies,  dreaming  of  me, 
and  my  promise  to  be  his  alone !  And  should  I  be  ful- 
filling this  promise,  attracting  the  notice,  the  applause  of 
a  crowd  ?  Oh,  Lord  Edgemere,  is  it  strange  that  I  cannot 
danc3?"  She  spoke  with  strong,  though  suppressed  emo- 
tion, and  Lord  Edgemere  at  once  entered  into  her  feelings. 
Q/uicldy  recovering,  she  said  cheerfully,  "You  will  ask  me, 
with  these  feelings,  why  I  gave  the  ball  at  all  ?  Because 
I  could  not  bear  to  be  so  selfish  as  to  refuse  Emily  such  ?„ 
trifle  ;  and  those  who  paid  me  such  continued  attention 
certainly  demanded  some  return." 

"  You  have  done  very  wisely,  my  dear  Ida.  To  conciliate 
js  so  infinitely  more  agreeable  than  to  ofiend,  that  it  is 
worth  some  sacrifice  of  individual  will.  You  have  gratified 
many ;  soothed,  perhaps,  oflTended  pride  ;  given  scope  to 
kindly  feehngs — " 

"I  fear  to  unamiable  ones,  too,"  interposed  Lady 
Ida. 

"  Perhaps  so  ;  for  when  was  there  a  ball  whose  ordeal 
every  one  could  pass  unscathed  ?  Yet  still  there  appears 
to  me  a  larger  share  of  happiness  in  these  rooms  than  in 
some  of  our  crowded  assemblies  in  London.     I  am  sure,  if 


58  woman's  friendship. 

ever  face  spoke  truth,  there  is  one  person  perfectly  happy  ) 
look  at  Miss  LesHe  now." 

In  the  midst  of  a  gay  throng  Florence  was  standing, 
.istcnnig,  and  sometimes  joining  in  the  merry  conversation 
of  Emily  Melford  and  her  attendant  beaux,  with  such 
sparkling  animation  Hghtmg  up  every  feature  that  it  was 
impossible  to  pass  her  unremarked.  Just  at  the  moment 
that  Lord  Edgemere  had  directed  Lady  Ida's  attention 
towards  her,  one  of  Strauss's  most  inspiring  waltzes  struck 
up,  and  several  couples  were  instantly  formed. 

"  Come,  Florence,  one  turn — only  one ;  have  pity  on 
Alfred,  who  has  been  asking  you  so  long ;  and  he  is  no 
stranger.  You  may  waltz  with  him,"  intreated  Emily,  ere 
she  departed  with  her  partner,  and  her  brother  was  not 
slow  to  follow  up  the  hint. 

"  You  really  must  waltz.  Miss  Leslie ;  it  will  be  a  treat 
to  have  a  genuine  lover  of  dancmg  to  waltz  with.  You 
say  you  love  dancing,  and  yet  not  waltz  ;  indeed  you  do  not 
know  what  dancing  is — ask  Emily — ask  Lady  Mary." 

"  Will  she  stand  firm  ?"  whispered  Lord  Edgemere  to  liis 
companion,  as  Florence,  shrinking  back,  intreated  to  be 
excused,  resistmg  even  Emily's  declaration,  that  she  did 
not  know  how  ridiculous  she  appeared  refusmg  to  do  what 
everybody  else  did. 

"You  know  you  can  waltz,  Florence,"  she  persisted, 
"  and  much  better  than  I  do." 

"  Then  it  is  not  incapacity,  Miss  Leslie ;  indeed  you  have 
no  excuse.  Is  not  that  music  enough  to  mspire  you — even 
were  you  faulting  with  fatigue  ?" 

"  Indeed  it  is ;  and  I  assure  you  I  am  not  in  the  least 
fatigued.  I  own  I  have  waltzed  in  sport  very  often,  but 
not  here — not  now  indeed — indeed  Mr.  Melford  you  must 
excuse  me." 

"  But  why,  Florence  ?  I  assure  you  it  is  quite  an  Eng- 
lish dance  noAV.  There  is  not  the  least  shadow  of  harm  in 
it,"  interposed  Lady  Mary.  But  Florence  was  firm,  and 
carried  her  point,  although  Alfred  Melford  declared  he  would 
leave  her  alone  as  a  punishment,  as  a  post  for  the  waltzers, 
instead  of  taking  her  to  a  clmperon;  and  he  knew  she 
would  not  have  courage  to  go  by  herself 

"  You  wiU  do  no  such  thing,  Alfred  ;  for  Florence  is  my 


woman's    FRIENDSHir.  59 

cliaige,  and  I  am  here  to  redeem  it,"  interposed  Lady  Ida, 
foming  forward ;  and  Florence  clung  to  her  arm  with  such 
m  expression  of  relief  that  young  Melford  laughed  immo- 
derately, a  laugh  in  which  he  was  jomed  as  gayly  by 
herself. 

"  Oh,  if  Ida  upholds  you  in  your  perverseness.  Miss 
Florence,  there  is  no  hope  ;  *  so  I  will  make  my  parting 
bow,  and  vanish,"  he  said,  and  darted  off  to  joui  tha 
waltzers  with  some  less  scrupulous  partner. 

*'  I  give  you  joy  of  your  conquest.  Miss  Leshe,"  said 
Lord  Edgemere,  smiling  kindly.  "  If  incapacity  and  sub- 
sequent real  disinchnation  had  incited  your  firmness,  you 
would  have  achieved  no  conquest  at  aU ;  but  when  prmci 
pie  triumphs  over  incUnation,  I  honor  it,  even  in  such  a 
small  thing  as  a  waltz." 

Florence  blushed  deeply,  but  not  with  pain ;  wondering 
how  Lord  Edgemere  could  so  exactly  have  divined  the 
truth — for  no  true  lover  of  dancing  (if  such  a  person  in 
these  days  of  art  can  be  found)  ever  yet  listened  to  an  in- 
spiring waltz,  without  the  longmg  desire  to  jom  m  it. 

"  Do  you  waltz,  Lady  Ida  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Not  very  often ;  I  have  done  so  when  it  would  have 
Beemed  greater  affectation  to  refuse,  than  love  of  display 
to  do  so.  But  I  am  not  very  fond  of  it ;  it  is  an  exercise 
too  exciting,  too  absorbing,  ever  to  be  a  favorite  amongst 
genume  EngHsh  women ;  and  with  your  passionate  love  of 
dancing,  Florence,  you  are  right  to  resist  all  persuasions, 
and  not  waltz.  All  Emily's  sage  resolutions  to  that  effect 
have,  I  perceive,  melted  into  air.  I  am  glad  you  are 
firmer." 

Florence  was  satisfied. 

To  enter  mto  all  the  deUghts  of  the  ball  would  be  im- 
possible. Suffice  it  that  to  far  the  greater  nimaber  within 
those  halls,  it  was  perfect  enjoyment.  Nothing  seemed 
wanting :  even  the  most  exactmg  were  satisfied,  nay 
charmed  with  the  attention  they  received  fi'om  their  dis- 
tinguished hostess. 

Lady  Ida  left  her  memory  as  a  bright  star  in  the  hearts 
of  every  one  present,  various  as  were  their  dispositions,  their^ 
characters,  and  feefings.  "  ^Tiat  availed  such  '  golden 
opinions'   from  those  she  might  never  meet  again?"  the 


60  woman's  friendship 

skeptic  and  the  selfish  may  demand.  Little  in  actua* 
deed  ;  but  much,  much  in  that  account  where  the  smallest 
act  of  kindness  and  benevolence  is  registered  forever. 

Pleasures,  however  transporting,  unhappily  cannot  last. 
No  chain — he  it  of  gold,  or  pearl,  or  flowers — can  bind  the 
stubborn  wings  of  time,  and  bid  him  loiter  on  his  way. 
He  spurns  the  fetter,  darkly,  sternly,  rushing  on;  and 
bright  indeed  must  be  the  joys  which  fade  not  beneath  his 
step.  The  festive  scene  at  length  closed.  Not  mdeed 
till  the  blue  light  of  mommg  struggled  to  regain  domuiion 
over  the  earth.  Carriage  after  carriage  rolled  from  the 
gates,  bearing  with  them  for  the  most  part  memories  oi 
pleasure  often  recalled  with  a  sigh ;  until  at  last.  Lord 
Melford's  family  and  their  resident  guests  remained  sole 
occupants  of  St.  John's. 


CHAPTER  X. 


SEPARATION. — THE    CLOUD    GATHERS. — A    CHARACTER   TO   BE 
REMEMBERED. 

BELIE^^NG  with  the  wise  personage,  who  wrote,  said,  or 
left  as  legacy,  the  sage  adage  that 

"  Trifles  make  the  sum  of  human  life ;" 

and  also,  that  it  is  in  trifles,  mfinitely  clearer  than  m  great 
dseds,  that  the  actual  character  is  displayed,  we  have 
lingered,  perhaps  too  long,  on  the  first  part  of  our  narra- 
tive, hoping  that  our  readers  may  feel  some  interest  in,  and 
judge  somewhat  of  the  character  of,  our  youthful  heroine  ; 
destined,  ere  the  sober  gray  of  hfe  came  on,  to  figure  in 
widely  diflerent  scenes. 

The  perfect  happiness  of  Florence,  she  herself  knew, 
must  very  soon  be  clouded  ;  and  she  roused  every  unselfish 
feehng  of  her  nature  to  save  her  from  weak  repining,  oi 
fretful  regret.  Early  in  May,  Lord  Melford's  family  were 
to  quit  St.  John's.  This,  though  a  privation,  (for  Florence 
liked  Emily,  in  spite  of  the  wide  dissimilarity  of  their 
characters  and  tastes,)  was  one  easily  borne  compared  to 
the  severer  U'^nl  awaiting   her   in  the  departure-  of  Lord 


WOMAN    S   FRIENDSHIP.  Oi 

Edgemere's  party  towards  the  end  of  April,  taldng  Lady 
Ida  Villiers  with  them. 

"  Remember,  Florence,  if  it  should  happen  that  in  any 
thing  you  need  me,  if  my  friendship  or  influence  can  be  of 
any  service  to  you,  write  to  me  without  scruple,"  had 
been  Lady  Ida's  parting  address,  in  a  tone  of  smoerity 
which  Florence  never  forgot.  "  You  are  very  young,  but 
with  such  a  mother  your  character  will  not  change  ;  and 
if  I  meet  again  the  Florence  Leslie  whom  I  leave,  trust  me 
you  will  find  me  still  the  same,  however  the  kind  world 
may  tell  you  that  our  respective  ranks  place  an  insuperable 
barrier  between  us." 

Florence  had  tried  to  smile,  but  found  the  effort  vain. 

Lady  Ida  departed — and  oh  !  how  sad  and  lonely  did 
every  pursuit  and  pleasure,  for  a  brief  while,  seem.  But 
she  had  gone  to  happiness ;  and  though  when  Florence 
received  a  few  hurried  hues  from  her,  tellmg  her  she  was 
on  the  eve  of  quitting  England,  and  in  a  very  few  weeks 
expected  to  join  Mr.  St.  Maur,  who  was  already  at  Nice, 
the  consciousness  of  the  many  miles  of  sea  and  land  divi- 
ding them  pressed  heavily  on  her  affectionate  heart,  she 
could  and  did  rejoice  that  the  time  of  probation  was  at  an 
end,  and  Lady  Ida  might  indeed  be  happy  with  him  whom 
she  so  faithfully  and  devotedly  loved. 

From  Emily  Melford,  who  was  her  constant  correspon- 
dent, she  heard  all  further  particulars  of  the  happy  termi- 
nation of  the  voyage  and  journey  ;  and  next  of  her  marriage, 
for  St.  Maur  was  so  wonderfully  recovered  there  was  no 
ocsasion  for  further  delay  ;  and  then,  by  degrees,  of  their 
fixing  their  residence  for  some  few  years  in  a  beautiful  villa 
in  the  neighboihood  of  Home,  and  that  they  v/ere  as  happy 
as  mortals  might  be. 

Not  long  after  Lady  Ida  left  Devonshire,  some  changes 
took  place  in  Florence  Leslie's  domestic  life,  wliich  must 
not  be  passed  imnoticed.  We  have  said  or  hinted,  that 
Mr.  Leslie  was  not  a  rich  man.  Nay,  for  the  rank  which 
his  birth  and  education  entitled  him  to  fill,  he  was  de- 
cidedly poor.  Some  few  months  before  Lady  Ida  came  to 
Devonshire,  a  friend  had  brought  to  his  recollection  a 
long-neglected  law-suit,  which  had  been  commenced  by 
the  graiidfather  of  Mr.  Leslie  for  the  recovery  of  an  estate, 

n 


C2  WOMAN^S     FRIENDSHIP. 

which  it  M  as  generally  supposed  had  been  alienated  from 
the  family  by  some  chicanery  of  the  supposed  heir  and  his 
lawyer. 

"VYilliam  Leslie,  the  person  then  concerned,  died,  before 
much  more  than  prehminaries  had  been  arranged.  His 
Bon,  an  easy  country  gentleman,  satisfied  with  the  moderate 
fortune  he  possessed,  never  even  examined  the  papers  left 
to  his  charge,  leaving  his  son,  at  his  death,  if  not  afflr.ent, 
at  least  a  comfortable  competence.  "With  the  present  Mr. 
Leslie,  however,  business  had  been  unfortunate  ;  and  he 
retired  to  Devonshire,  in  compliance  with  the  wishes  of 
hli  wife,  to  economize,  till  Walter's  dawning  manhood 
might  require  their  home  to  be  in  London. 

He  had  sometimes  heard  his  father  speak  of  an  estate 
which  ought  to  be  their  own,  but  regarded  it  little,  until 
just  before  the  opening  of  our  tale.  The  estate  became 
again  without  a  master,  and  many  old  friends  of  Mr.  LesUe 
urged  his  putting  forth  his  claims,  as  well  as  those  of  the 
supposed  heir-at-law.  Mr.  Leslie  was  so  far  ambitious, 
that  for  the  interest  of  his  children  he  would  have  done 
and  risked  much ;  and  eagerly  seeking  the  long-forgotten 
papers,  he  employed  himself  actively  in  looldng  for  a 
lawyer,  of  sufficient  skill  and  probity,  to  undertake  the 
delicate  business.  In  vain  Mrs.  Leshe,  far  more  clear- 
sighted than  himself,  intreated  liim  to  forego  his  claims. 
It  appeared  to  her,  from  the  papers  of  the  former  lawsuit, 
which  she  had  attentively  perused,  that  their  claims  were 
not  merely  remote  but  uiiibunded  ;  or  at  least,  not  so  well 
authenticated  and  proved  as  to  ensure  success.  She  re- 
minded him  o"  the  expense  which  the  carrying  on  the  suit 
must  occasion ;  she  intreated  him,  with  all  the  eloquence 
of  affection,  to  remain  contented  with  their  present  mode 
of  hfe.  They  were  not  like  others,  absolutely  dependent 
on  exertion  or  some  lucky  chance  for  sufficiency.  They 
needed  economy  for  a  few  years,  certainly ;  but  they  had 
capital,  which  if  not  drained  by  unnecessary  calls,  would 
amply  provide  for  their  daughters,  and  settle  Walter  in 
business,  where  he  might  carve  out  his  own  fortune  ;  a 
far  happier  lot  than  awaited  those  to  whom  fortune  de- 
scended without  exertion  or  ambition  of  their  own.  Mr. 
Leshe  might  have  been  convmced,   had  there   not  been 


womaf's  friendship.  63 

those  troublesome  meddlers,  misnamed  friends,  who  spoka 
of  henpecked  husbands,  and  the  egregious  folly  of  having 
competence  and  wealth  and  distinction  awaiting  them,  yet 
faihng'  in  the  mental  courage  and  independent  spirit  for 
the  exertion  necessary  to  obtain  them.. 

These  arguments  had  a  powerful  advocate  in  Mr.  Leslie's 
own  inclination.  There  was  much,  he  felt  convinced,  in 
liis  son  beyond  what  met  the  common  eye,  and  he  shrunk 
from  binding  him  to  mere  mechanical  employment  ;  for 
him,  beyond  even  the  interest  of  his  daughters,  he  longed 
for  wealth,  that  Walter's  uncommonly  gifted  mind  might 
have  scope  to  develop  itself,  and  that  those  higher  spheres 
of  employment  to  which  his  inclination  prompted  might 
be  pursued,  without  the  cold  and  sordid  calculations  wliich 
inevitably  attend  mere  competence. 

There  was  much  in  these  considerations  nearly  and  sadly 
to  affect  Mrs.  Leslie.  Yet  she  urged  that,  economically  as 
they  at  present  lived,  this  same  end  might  still  be  accom- 
plished ;  intreating  liim  to  recollect  that  Walter's  mterests 
might  be  far  more  irretrievably  wrecked  by  the  loss  of  the 
suit,  and  its  attendg,nt  heavy  drains  on  their  little  capital. 
But  Mr.  Leslie  never  dreamed  of  loss.  He  felt  so  con- 
vinced in  his  0A\Ti  mind  of  the  justice  of  his  claims,  so 
fully  persuaded,  that  all  the  necessar\'  expenses  would 
be  \>ut  as  dust  in  the  balance  compared  to  the  possession 
of  a  rich  and  unincumbered  estate,  that  he  laughed  aside 
aU  her  fears,  declarmg  that  the  papers  had  been  examined 
by  an  exceedingly  clever  lawyer,  and  pronounced  as  quite 
sufficient  to  authorize  his  claims,  and  in  his  hands  accord- 
ingly the  suit  was  placed. 

We  must  pass  lightly  over  the  next  few  years  in  the  hfe 
of  our  heroine,  mentioning  only  those  circumstances  ne- 
cessary for  the  clear  elucidation  of  our  naiTative. 

Florence  Leslie  was  not  a  character  to  fall  from  the 
promise  of  high  and  noble  virtue  which  the  early  age  o^ 
Eeventeen  had  appeared  to  give.  The  impression  of  Lady 
Ida's  faultless  qualities  and  most  endearing  character  could 
not  fade  from  an  imagination  ardent  as  her  own.  It  was 
continually  before  her  eyes,  inciting  her  to  many  of  those 
trifling  acts  of  self-denial  and  moral  strength,  which  might 
otherwise  have  been  unperformed. 


64  woman's    FRlENDSUir. 

At  Beventeen  a  girl's  character  is  seldom  fully  formed. 
It  is  the  first  opening  of  life  ;  its  first  susceptibility  of  en- 
joyment ;  its  first  consciousness  of  poAver,  of  feeling,  of 
perfect  happiness,  unalloyed  even  by  those  whisperiiigs  of 
our  innate  corruption,  to  which  Ave  only  awake  by 
degrees.  All  thmgs  seem  as  bright,  as  fond,  as  innocent, 
as  our  own  minds  :  love  I  love  breathes  around  us  in  nature 
as  in  man  :  we  see  nothing  of  the  universal  curse,  but  alJ 
of  the  universal  love  !  "VYe  may  hear  of  sin  and  sufTermg, 
but  they  are  things  afar  off,  and  of  little  moment.  Some 
deem  childhood  the  happiest  season  of  life  ;  but  oh ' 
surely  it  is  youth. 

Childhood  is  but  a  dream,  containing,  indeed,  the  germs 
of  after  being,  not  the  flowers  themselves.  It  is  the 
threshold  of  spring,  but  not  spring  itself  No  !  sprmg, 
hke  youth,  comes  in  the  sudden  flood  of  sunshine — kui- 
dles  with  magic  touch  the  senseless  seed  into  the  fragrant 
flower — converts  the  laughter  of  the  moment  into  the 
deeper  smile  of  the  heart — the  weary  toil  of  task  and 
restraint  into  the  springy  freedom,  the  buoyant  hope,  the 
bright  unfading  glory  of  life — awakened,  beautiful  exis- 
tence I 

But  even  as  it  is  the  season  of  guilelessness,  of  joy,  of 
good  that  tliinlceth  no  evil,  so  is  it  of  impression.  The 
heart  and  mind,  like  wax,  are  moulded  to  whatever  form 
the  hand  of  affection  points  ;  and  happy  is  it  for  those 
whose  first  friendships,  whose  early  associations,  are  with 
those  capable  of  impressing  there  nothing  but  the  good. 
We  are  writing  generally  ;  but  perhaps  it  is  only  to  those 
pecuharly  ardent  and  clinging  dispositions  of  wliich  Flo- 
rence LesUe  was  one,  to  whom  these  remarks  are  apphcable. 
There  are  girls,  even  of  seventeen,  so  wrapt  in  self,  that 
the  material  of  the  heart  is  of  stone  instead  of  flesh ;  and 
others  again  are  content  to  flutter  through  the  brief  period 
of  existence,  with  neither  strength  of  impulse  nor  power 
of  imagination,  and  consequently  laugh  at  all  things 
which  speak  of  thought  or  feeling. 

Gradually  the  character  of  Florence  deepened — her  in- 
tellect expanded  ;  and  as  ths  girl  merged  into  the  woman, 
if  her  wild  and  joyous  spirits  were  in  part  subdued,  there 
was  a  truth,  a  firmness  of  principle,   a  powerful  sense  of 


woman's  friendship.  65 

religion,  a  yet  deeper  capability  of  suffering  and  enduring, 
which,  to  tho&e  capable  of  appreciating,  or  even  of  under- 
standing her,  would  have  rendered  her  at  twenty  still  more 
deserving  of  love.  But  Emily  Melford  was  right.  It  did, 
indeed,  appear  as  if  by  the  encouragement  of  these  lofty 
and  glowing  feelings,  her  doom  was  to  stand  alone,  to  meet 
with  none  to  whom  she  could  lay  bare  her  whole  heart ; 
with  few  who  did  not  smile  at  aught  of  sentiment  or 
action  higher  than  was  common  ;  and  so  at  length  it  was 
only  within  her  own  circle  that  Florence  Leslie  was  really 
known. 

There  was  one  person,  however,  who,  through  a  stern, 
forbidding  aspect,  prevented  many  from  thinking  aloud 
before  her,  could  yet  (strange  to  say)  afford  to  love,  and 
had  sense  to  appreciate  our  youthful  heroine.  This  was  a 
Mrs.  Uivers,  a  distant  relation  of  Mr.  Leslie,  with  whom 
intercourse  had  been  continually  kept  up,  which  was  more 
intimately  renewed  some  little  time  after  Lady  Ida's  de- 
parture. 

The  peculiarly  chilling  character  of  this  lady  had  been 
formed  by  a  most  extraordinary  train  of  deceit  and  false- 
hood in  persons  whom  she  had  loved  and  trusted.  From 
having  been  one  of  the  most  affectionate  and  most  con- 
fiding beings,  she  became  the  coldest  and  most  forbidding 
— from  trusting  all,  she  trusted  none  ;  not  at  least  in 
appearance,  for  it  was  shrewdly  suspected  that  a  young 
girl  whom  she  had  adopted,  and  to  whom  it  was  supposed 
she  would  leave  all  her  property,  which  was  considerable, 
possessed  her  affections  in  the  warmest  degree.  This 
orphan,  by  name  Flora  Leslie,  was  the  only  remaining 
relative  of  Mr.  Leslie  who  bore  his  name:  relative,  in- 
deed, she  could  hardly  be  called,  as  their  cousinship  was 
five  or  six  degrees  removed .  though  the  similarity  of  name 
often  caused  the  supposition  of  a  much  nearer  consan- 
guinity. 

The  residence  of  Mrs.  Rivers  was  near  "Winchester,  and 
thither  Florence  was  repeatedly  invited  as  a  companion  to 
Flora,  with  whom,  however,  she  speedily  found  she  had 
not  a  thought  in  common ;  finding  much  more  to  excite 
her  interest  and  affection  in  Mrs.  Rivers  herself.  To  hei 
she  was  so  invariably  attentive  and  respectful,  that  the 

6* 


66  woman's  friendship. 

lady  mifrlit  have  descended  from  her  pedestal  of  coldness 
an(l  pride,  and  trusted  once  a<^ain,  had  she  not  still  feared 
to  find  those  endearing  qualities  deceitful  as  before.  That 
Flora  Leslie  was  of  a  most  unamiable  temper,  possessing 
a  remarkable  scarcity  of  attractive  or  endearing  quahties, 
was  her  safeguard  in  the  opinion  of  Mrs,  Rivers,  particu- 
larly as  the  young  lady  had  hypocrisy  enough  ever  to 
bewail  these  faults,  and  to  pretend  to  correct  them  ;  and 
thus,  by  the  most  consummate  art,  she  deceived  by  a  com- 
pletely contrary  process  to  her  predecessors.  Florence 
speedily  penetrated  this,  and  turned  from  her  with  loathing  ; 
but  how  might  her  hps  warn  Mrs.  Rivers  of  the  precipice 
on  which  her  last  attachment  seemed  to  stand.  How  de- 
scend to  so  mean  a  deed  as  to  poison  her  mind  against  an 
orphan  dependent  on  her  for  support.  She  neither  could 
nor  woidd  act  thus ;  contenting  herself  rather  with  con- 
tinuing her  simple  true-hearted  kindness  towards  Mrs. 
Rivers ;  often  sacrificing  her  own  inclinations  and  favorite 
duties  to  comply  with  her  request,  and  make  some  stay  at 
Woodlands. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

WALTER. — A   PROrOSAL. — A   FATHER's   DEATH-BED. 

Wk  ought,  perhaps,  to  have  mentioned  in  its  proper 
place,  that  Mr.  Leslie's  desire  to  be  on  the  spot  to  super- 
intend the  proceeding  of  this  lawsuit,  urged  him  to  give  up 
hi5  beautiful  little  retreat  in  Devonshire,  and  reside  in  the 
metropohs ;  thus  materially  increasing  his  expenditure, 
though  the  family  lived  as  economically  as  possible,  and 
as  materially  decreasing  their  domestic  comforts  and  en- 
jo}Tnents.  Mr.  Leslie  was  far  too  honorable  to  Hve  be- 
yond his  'pre?,cnt  means,  because  he  confidently  trusted 
his  future  would  bring  wealth  ;  and  when  economy  must 
be  consulted,  and  observers  of  that  economy  are  of  birth 
and  education,  London  does  not  possess  one  quarter  of  the 
happiness  or  the  true  enjo}Tnent  of  the  country.     There, 


woman's  pPuIENdship.  67 

J  .easures  the  most  innocent,  the  most  healthful,  the  most 
leviving,  await  the  economist  at  every  turn,  without  the 
smallest  tax  upon  his  finances.  Not  thus  is  it  in  the 
metropohs.  It  has  indeed  m'any  avenues  of  improvement, 
of  pleasure,  of  true  enjoyment  ;  but  they  are  for  those  to 
whom  money  is  no  object,  time  of  little  value  ;  not  for 
that  noble  set  of  economists,  who,  rathe/  than  indulge 
in  the  exj)cnse  attendant  upon  pbasure,  would  forego  i£ 
altogether. 

Mrs.  Leshe's  delicate  health  had  prevented  their  keep- 
ing m.uch  society  even  in  Devonshire.  In  London  they  kept 
still  less;  for- in  the  environs  of  this  great  city,  as  in  the 
city  itself,  people  may  hve  next  door  to  each  other  for 
years,  and  never  know  more  than  their  respective  names  ; 
and,  therefore,  though  in  a  populous  neighborhood  the 
Leslies  lived  in  comparative  solitude. 

It  so  happened  that  neither  Mr.  nor  Mrs.  Leshe  had  any 
near  relation,  nor  even  connections,  both  having  been  only 
children,  and  the  latter,  in  fact,  an  orphan  from  her  ear- 
liest years. 

AU  these  things  considered,  it  was  no  very  great  wonder 
that  London  to  Florence  Leshe  was  in  truth  a  prison, 
compared  wdth  the  joys,  the  freedom,  and,  above  all,  the 
associations  of  the  country.  Yet  she  was  happy,  for  her 
mind  could  create  its  own  resources,  and  outwaid  excite- 
m.ent  she  needed  not.  Her  domestic  circle  was  sufficient 
to  call  forth  all  the  affection,  the  animation  of  her  nature 
The  opening  mind,  the  bird-like  joyousness  of  Minie,  the 
far  higher  character  of  Walter,  even  the  anxiety  his  deh- 
catc  health  occasioned,  bound  her  closer  and  closer  to 
them  both  ;  till  with  the  vivid  memories  of  Lady  Ida,  and 
the  lively  correspondence  of  Emily  Melford,  which,  mar- 
vellous to  relate,  continued  the  length  of  two  full  years, 
Florence's  simple  nature  needed  no  more.  She  did  some- 
times think  it  strange,  that  during  the  thrae  months  which 
the  Melfords  passed  in  town,  Emily  should  never  make 
any  exertion  to  see  her,  or  renew  the  intercourse  between 
the  families  ;  but  for  the  first  few  years,  Florence  was  too 
happy  in  herself  to  feel  it  as  neglect.  She  had  no  parti- 
cular need  of  their  kmdness,  so  did  not  miss  it..  Alas  I  it 
«  Qnly  in  the  time  of  sorrow,  only  when  we  most  need 


68  woman's  friendship. 

kindness,  that  we  awake  to  the  bitter  consciousness  oJ 
coldness  and  neglect. 

Meanwhile  time  passed.  Two,  and  nearly  three  years, 
and  Mr.  Leslie's  lawsuit  appeared  making  no  progress 
whatever  towards  a  favorable  completion ;  calling  in- 
deed, for  multiplied  expenses,  which  he  met  willingly, 
because  unalterably  convinced  that  success  would  attend 
him  at  last ;  a  conviction  shared  with  all  the  buoyant 
aii-ticipation  of  youth  by  his  son,  to  whom,  much  against 
Mrs.  Leslie's  consent,  his  hopes  and  expectations  had  been 
imparted. 

Walter  ^ooked  not  to  riches  as  means  of  sensual  pleasure 
and  intemperate  indulgences.  Inheriting,  unhappily,  the 
sickly  constitution  of  his  mother,  a  severe  illness,  soon 
after  he  was  fifteen,  deprived  him  of  all  tasto  for  boyish 
pleasures,  and  gave  him  but  one  great  desire  to  become 
mentally  great.  Tastes  and  powers  suddenly  awakened 
within  him  never  felt  before.  He  had  always  been  re- 
markably intellectual ;  but  with  the  sudden  conception  of 
poetry,  painting,  sculpture,  all  those  links  of  a  higher, 
more  etherial  nature,  his  former  joyous  spirits  changea 
to  a  sensitiveness,  an  almost  morbid  susceptibility  ol 
feeling. 

He  gave  the  whole  energy  of  mind  and  heart  to  his 
studies.  It  mattered  not  what  subject  they  embraced;  he 
mastered  them  with  an  ease,  a  capability  of  comprehension 
which  caused  both  his  father  and  himself  to  laugh  at  the 
fancy,  that  by  too  much  application  he  was  injuring  hi? 
already  but  too  precarious  health. 

Mrs.  Leslie's  anxious  spirit  often  trembled  ;  but  it  was 
more  at  his  faultless  temper,  his  confiding  and  aflectionate 
heart,  his  extraordinary  sense  of  religious  trust  and  de- 
pendence. Yet,  oh  I  how  could  a  mother,  as  she  looked 
upon  and  traced  the  many  virtues  of  her  boy,  wish  it  had 
been  otherwise  ?  How  breathe  the  secret  dread,  that  he 
seemed  but  lent  to  earth  ? 

During  Lady  Ida's  intimacy  with  Florence,  "Walter  had 
been  at  school  in  London ;  but  he  had  never  been  happy 
there  :  either  the  close  air  did  not  agree  with  him,  or  the 
regular  and  somewhat  confined  routine  of  lessons  and 
exercises  cramped  his  energies,  and  permitted  no  vent  to 


woman's  friendship.  60 

his  higher  talents.  After  his  severe  illness,  he,  of  course, 
remained  at  home,  studying  of  his  owti  accord,  and  with 
little  assistance  of  masters.  At  seventeen,  the  air  of  the 
north  being  recommended,  Mr.  Leslie  placed  him,  to  his 
great  delight,  with  a  clergyman  in  "VYestmoreland  ;  and 
there  it  was  that  all  his  natural  endowments  in  poetry  and 
painting  burst  upon  him  with  a  flash,  a  brilliancy,  lighting 
up  his  wholu  being  with  new  powers,  and  new  hfe; 
banishing  all  trace  of  too  morbid  sensitiveness,  or  too  de- 
pressuig  gloom,  and  bringing  in  their  stead  such  a  glowing 
sense  of  joy,  such  a  consciousness  of  power,  that  even  the 
desire  of  wealth  lost  all  its  strength,  for  he  believed  he 
possessed  gifts  wdthin  him  which  would  make  their  owtj. 
way,  compel  a  world  to  acknowledge  them,  and  WTcath  his 
humble  name  with  the  bright  garland  of  immortal  renown. 
Alas  I  poor  boy,  he  knew  not  how  much  more  than  to 
other  minds  is  independence  necessary  for  the  happiness  of 
genius. 

Florence  had  just  completed  her  twentieth  year,  when, 
to  her  great  astonishment,  she  received  through  her  father, 
an  offer  of  marriage,  from  a  highly  respectable  young  man, 
whom  she  had  met  now  and  then  at  Woodlands,  but 
whose  attentions  ghe  had  never  deemed  any  thing  more 
than  the  courtesy  of  the  hour.  Mr.  Leslie  was  mmsually 
argent  in  forwarding  young  Sedley's  suit,  more  so  than 
Florence  could  at  all  comprehend.  It  netded  all  her  firm- 
ness, all  h(;r  eloquence,  all  her  caresses,  to  win  liim  over  to 
her  views,  and  obtain  his  consent  for  the  decided  dismissal 
of  her  admirer. 

He  said  that  she  knew  not  the  advantage  it  would  be, 
almost  the  necessity  there  existed  for  her  to  enter  early 
into  a  respectable  matrimonial  engagement ;  an  argument 
she  could  not  understand.  True,  she  said  that  she  knew 
if  the  lawsuit  were  unfortunately  lost,  his  fortune  w^ould 
be  materially  diminished ;  but  could  he  think  that  she 
would  shrink  from  aught  of  privation  shared  with  her 
family  ?  rather  she  would  remain  to  work  for  them,  to 
save  their  beautiful  and  childlike  Minie  all  necessity  to 
quit  her  home.  She  could  not  enter  the  holy  engagement 
of  matrimony,  without  feehng  either  respect  or  love  for 
him  whom  she  must  solemnly  vow  to  love,  honor,  and 


/O  woman's   friendship. 

obey;  she  could  not  marry  simply  for  wordly  advantages 
Mr.  Leslie  said  it  was  not  to  mere  worldly  views  he  re- 
ferred, but  then  checked  himself,  agitated  to  a  degree  yet 
more  starthngly  incomprehensible  to  his  daughter,  more 
particularly  as  her  mother  shared  it.  Terrified,  she  knew 
not  wherelbre,  she  threw  herself  on  Mrs.  LesHe's  neck,  ex 
claiming  in  extreme  emotion : 

"  If  your  happiness,  your  interests,  my  beloved  parents, 
are  in  any  way  concerned  in  this  intended  marriage,  only 
lell  me,  and  I  will  school  my  spirit  till  I  can  make  the 
sacrifice ;  only  tell  me,  do  not  deceive  me ;  does  this 
alliance  concern  your  welfare,  as  well  as  the  supposed 
advantages  to  myself?  does  it  aflect  you  in  any  way? 
Tell  me  but  the  truth — the  whole  truth — do  not  terrify  me 
by  mysteries  which  I  camiot  solve  ;  say  but  the  word,  if 
indeed  it  be  for  you." 

"  Florence,  my  child  !  it  was  but  for  yourself  I  spoke," 
replied  her  father,  for  Mrs.  Leslie  could  but  strain  the 
weeping  girl  to  her  heart  in  silence ;  "  solemnly  I  pledge 
my  word,  I  thought  but  of  your  interests,  your  happiness, 
and  welcomed  this  ofier  as  insuring  you  an  independent 
home  and  station,  which  neither  circumstance  nor  accident 
could  aflect." 

"  But  why  should  I  need  these  thmgs  more  than  others, 
father  ?  why  should  you  banish  me  from  your  hearth — 
your  name?" 

It  was  a  very  simple  question,  but  Mr.  Leslie's  answer 
was,  as  if  it  said  more  to  his  wife  and  to  himself  than 
she  had  meant.  He  caught  her  convulsively  in  his  arms, 
passionately  exclaiming — 

"  You  are  right,  my  blessed  child  !  quite,  quite  right. 
Wliy,  indeed,  should  I  banish  you  from  my  name  and 
hea^rth?  No — no — you  shall  never  change  them,  save 
for  those  you  may  love  better.  Florence,  darhng  1  forgive 
j^our  fathei  I  have  been  too  urgent,  but  it  was  fol  you, 
my  child,  only  for  you." 

And  hastily  releasing  her,  he  quitted  the  room,  leaving 
Florence  in  a  state  of  such  indefinable  dread,  that  her 
mother  compelled  herself  to  calmness  to  soothe  her, 
assuring  her  that  they  had  but  spoken  for  her  good ;  her 
tkther's  interests  were  in  no  ways  affected,  and  that  she 


woman's  friendship.  71 

knew  a  little  thing  disturbed  him  now.  Florent3  wept 
away  her  emotion  on  the  bosom  of  her  beloved  mother, 
and  Mr.  Leslie's  resumed  calmness,  when  they  aj^ain  met, 
removed  every  lingering  fear. 

"Does  she  suspect?  Have  I  ruined  her  peace  forever  ? 
Mary — Mary  I  why  have  I  not  your  control?"  was  Mr. 
Leslie's  agitated  address  to  his  wife,  when  all  but  them 
selves  had  retired  to  rest. 

"  She  suspects  nothing,  dearest  Edward,  save  that  your 
love  for  her  is  even  stronger  than  she  believed  it ;  but  oil, 
for  the  sake  of  our  sweet  girl's  peace,  bid  her  not  to  wed 
again.  It  seems  as  if  that  gentle  heart  were  mercifully 
preserved  from  all  love  save  for  us,  to  spare  me  the  bittei 
agony  of  giving  her  to  another  with  the  truth  untold ;  the 
dark  alternative  of  persisting  in  that  which  is  not,  oi 
ruining  her  peace  for  ever.  You  do  not  feel  this,  and 
therefore  believe  that  marriage  would  give  her  greater 
security  than  remaining  with  us  ;  but  oh,  my  husband,  do 
not  urge  it  again.  An  all-seeing  Providence  is  around  us. 
Let  US  believe  he  specially  watches  over  her  sweet  inno- 
cence, and  by  keeping  her  thus  from  all  love,  guards  her 
from  dangers,  from  misery  I  dare  not  speak." 

Mr.  Leslie  seemed  convinced  and  afiected  ;  but  whether, 
indeed,  he  would  have  followed  his  wife's  advice,  could 
never  be  known;  for,  two  short  months  after  this  event, 
he  was  attacked  by  a  violent  illness,  terminating  so 
suddenly  and  fatally,  that  "Walter  had  barely  time  to  travel 
post  to  London,  called  thither  by  a  letter  from  Florence  in 
agony  conjuring  him  to  come  to  them  without  a  moment's 
delay,  ere  the  fond  husband  and  affectionate  father  breathed 
his  last. 

Of  all  deaths,  a  sudden  one  is  the  most  dreadful,  the 
most  agonizing  to  the  survivors.  It  is  said,  death,  when- 
ever it  comes,  is  sudden ;  a  shock  always  stunning,  always 
overwhelming.  Perhaps  it  is  so  ;  but  when  only  one  week 
intervenes  between  life  and  death,  one  little  week  severs 
ties  of  years,  hides  under  the  cold  damp  earth  features 
which  beamed  upon  us  in  health  and  joy  from  every 
accustomed  haunt ;  when  the  beloved  is  removed  directly 
from  liis  domestic  circle  to  the  narrow  grave,  missed  from 
his  usual  seat,  not  to  be  found  in  some  other,  which,  though 


72  woman's  friendship 

painful,  (if  a  couch  of  suffering,)  yet  becomes  dear,  "but, 
missed,  to  be  remembered  only  as  gone  forever ;  when  no 
intervening  period  of  dependence  on  the  part  of  the  suf- 
ferer, of  unremitting  attention  and  increased  affection  from 
the  beloved  ones,  has  taken  place,  and  (as  it  were)  partially 
prepared  us  for  the  last  dread  change,  the  final  separation  ; 
when  none  of  these  things  take  place,  oh,  who  may  speak 
the  agonies  of  death  ! 

And  all  this  was  felt  by  Mrs.  Leslie  and  her  children. 
They  had  had  no  time  to  fear,  still  less  to  hope,  and  it  was 
long  ere  they  could  realize  that  one  so  ardently  beloved 
indeed  had  passed  away  forever.  The  extremity  of  Mrs. 
Leslie's  anguish  none  knew  T^ut  Him  in  whose  ear  in  the 
watches  of  the  night  it  had  been  poured.  Her  illness, 
her  uncomplaining  patience  had  bound  her  more  closely 
than  common  to  him,  and  his  almost  womanly  care  and 
gentleness  through  her  long  years  of  suffering  excited  no 
common  love ;  and  bodily  disease  itself  seemed  for  the 
while  subdued,  conquered  by  this  sudden  and  most  agoni- 
sing mental  affliction.  She  had  left  her  couch  to  attend 
His  dying  bed ;  day  and  night  she  moved  not  from  his 
pillow,  save  at  the  moment  of  Walter's  arrival,  for  she 
dreaded  the  effect  of  the  shock  upon  him.  And  not  alone 
was  it  the  husband  of  her  love,  the  gentle  soother  of  her 
painful  couch,  whom  she  had  to  mourn.  There  was  a  se- 
cret tie  between  them,  calling  for  all  the  devotion,  all  the 
gratitude  of  woman's  heart.  In  the  first  year  of  their 
marriage,  he  had  granted  a  boon,  a  weighty  boon ;  one, 
perhaps,  that  none  other  but  Edward  Leshe  could  have 
granted,  and  never  from  that  hour  evinced  regret  that  he 
had  done  so.  And  now  that  dread  secret  w^as  all  her  own, 
only  her  own  ;  and  its  heavy  weight  appeared  to  increase 
the  bitter  anguish  of  her  husband's  loss. 

At  the  moment  Mrs.  Leslie  left  the  pillow  of  the  dying 
to  meet  her  son,  Florence  alone  stood  beside  his  bed.  His 
eyes  were  closed  ;  the  livid  hue  of  death  had  stolen  over 
his  features,  and  the  poor  girl  bent  over  him,  stunned, 
motionless,  unconscious  that  scorching  tears  were  slowly 
rolhng  down  her  checks,  and  falling  upon  his.  He  opened 
his  eyes  languidly,  and  tried  feebly  to  draw  her  to  him, 
and  as  she  laid  her  heai  on  his  bosom,  kissing  again  and 


woman's  FRiENDsnrr.  73 

again  lils  sunken  cheek,  he  whispered  in  broken  and  dis- 
jointed sentences  : 

*'  Florence,  my  child  1  my  precious  child  I  bless — bless 
you.  You  are  indeed  my  daughter.  Minie  is  not  dearer. 
Love — love  your  mother,  darling  ;  cherish  her,  care  for 
her  as  you  have  done.  She  has  more  than  common  claim 
for  gratitude.     Florence — darling — bless " 

And  his  voice  had  sunk  from  exhaustion,  so  as  to  be 
wholly  inarticulate,  though  his  lips  still  moved  .b.s  if  he 
spoke.  Again  and  again  those  words  returned  to  Florence — 
the  feeble  tone,  the  look  of  death  haunted  her  ;  bu^  there 
was  no  mystery  attached  to  them,  they  seemed  to  her  but 
the  last  warning  accents  of  that  parental  love,  which  had 
so  long  blessed  her  with  the  guidance  of  a  friend  as  well  as 
father.  With  more  than  usual  claims  for  love  and  gra- 
titude, she  recalled  her  mother's  years  of  sufiering,  which 
yet  had  never  checked  her  devotion  to  her  children,  and 
she  compared  that  affectionate  devotedness  with  the 
fashionable  selfishness  and  culj)able  neglect  of  others 
whom  she  knew,  and  she  felt  she  had  indeed  a  double 
incentive  to  duty  and  affection.  She  knelt  by  the  dead 
body  of  her  father,  and  secretly  vowed  to  make  her  mother 
the  first  object  of  her  life,  and  then  only  felt  relieved 
from  the  weight  even  of  love  which  her  father's  last  words 
had  left. 


CHAPTER  XIL 

Fn.IAL   LOVE. — WALTER    SEEKS    EMPLOYMENT. — ABILITY   AND 
INTEREST. 

Mr.  Leslie's  sudden  death  had,  of  course,  left  all  hk 
worldly  affairs  in  confusion.  Depending  entirely  on  the 
success  of  his  lawsuit,  and  believing  from  his  usual  good 
health,  that  many  years  of  life  were  still  before  him,  he 
had  left  no  will,  nor  any  instructions  as  to  the  division  of 
his  still  untouched  property.  The  examination  of  his 
papers  Mrs.  Leslie  took  upon  herself  There  were  indeed 
no  debts  to  startle  her,  but  as  she  had  long  anticipated, 
considerable  law  expenses,  which  had  very  materially  de- 


74  woman's  friendship. 

creased  his  income.  To  withdraw  all  further  prosecution 
of  the  suit  was  now  impossible,  for  much  as  Mrs.  Leshe  in 
secret  might  still  have  wished  it,  but  yet  hallowed  as  it 
now  seemed  by  its  association  with  the  dead  and  by  the  in- 
terests of  the  living,  she  Avould  not  perchance  have  drawn 
back,  even  if  she  could. 

On  AYalter's  delicate  frame  and  sensitive  spirit,  this  loss 
of  his  almost  idolized  father  had  at  first  produced  such 
painful  eflects,  as  greatly  to  alarm  his  affectionate  family. 
Ho  W33,  however,  effectually  roused,  when  he  became 
aware  of  his  mother's  determination  to  divide  the  little 
property  equally  between  her  children,  without  reserving  the 
smallest  portion  for  herself  E.espectfully,  but  positively  he 
declared  that  this  should  not  be.  It  was  no  position  for  a 
parent,  and  one  like  herself.  Rather  would  he  feel  himself 
and  his  sisters  utterly  dependent  upon  her,  than  so  com- 
pletely to  reverse  the  law  of  nature  and  of  filial  feeling. 
His  sisters  said  the  same,  and  inexpressibly  affected,  Mrs. 
Leshe  was  compelled  to  submit. 

Little  did  she  know  the  further  intentions  of  her  chih 
dren.  That  Walter  and  Florence  never  rested,  scarcely 
slept,  till  with  the  assistance  of  a  friend,  one  learned  in 
the  liw,  though  no  practitioner,  they  had  secured  her 
littie  portion  upon  herself,  binding  themselves  as  re- 
presentatives of  their  deceased  parent,  and  consequently 
pledging  themselves  to  answer  all  demands  of  the  im- 
pendiiig  suit.  This  accomplished,  both  were  comparatively 
reheved,  but  Walter  still  felt  that  his  task  was  not  yet 
done. 

It  was  one  evening,  about  six  weeks  after  Mr.  Leslie's 
death,  that  Mrs.  Leslie  found  herself  alone  with  her  son. 
A  favorite  work  was  open  before  him,  but  his  head  had 
gradually  sunk  upon  his  hands,  and  many  minutes  passed, 
find  still  he  did  not  raise  it. 

"  "Walter,  my  own  Walter  I" 

"  Mother  I "  he  threw  himself  vdth.  a  sudden  impulse* 
on  her  neck,  and  she  heard  him  sob. 

"  My  boy,  it  was  the  will  of  a  gracious  Providence  that 
he  should  go  from  us.  Oh,  we  must  not  resist  by  too  long, 
too  unresigned  a  sorrow.  I  know  what  he  was  to  you,  my 
Bhild — to  us  all — but " 


WOMAIi's    FRIENDSHIP.  ''5 

"  Mother,  it  is  not  only  for  my  father  I  mourn.  Oh, 
EiOther,  mother,  I  am  a  weak,  sinful  wretch — knowing 
\/hat  is  right,  a,nd  having  no  strength  of  myself  to  do  it." 

"  Who  has  strength  of  himself,  my  child  ?  Who  can  have 
it,  unless  infused — sought  for  by  prayer  and  action  ?" 

"  Yes,  mother,  action  as  well  as  prayer,  and  it  is  there 
I  fail.  I  have  sought  it  in  prayer,  but  not  in  action  ;  but 
I  will  mother,  trust  me  I  will." 

"  But  what  will  you,  my  Walter  ?  I  know  that  there  is 
even  more  that  depresses  you  than  the  anguish  which  we 
have  mutually  borne,  something  peculiarly  your  own.  If 
I  cannot  remove,  I  may  share  it,  and  so  lessen  its  burden. 
Tell  it  me  then,  my  child." 

And  ,ifter  a  moment's  pause,  Walter  did  pour  every 
anxious  thought  and  inward  struggle  into  his  mother's 
ear ;  and  as  he  concluded  he  looked  earnestly  on  his 
mother's  face,  and  its  expression  was  as  he  expected. 

"You  think  with  me,"  he  said:  "you  would  not  have 
me  wait  till  this  law-suit  is  decided,  to  form  my  future 
plans.     You  think  with  me." 

"  In  our  present  situation,  my  child,  I  cannot  think 
otherwise.  Yet,  is  it  impossible  to  unite  inclination  and 
profession?  Why  must  you  give  up  those  pursuits,  not 
only  naturally  dear,  but  hallowed  by  the  recollection  of 
your  father's  indulged  love  ?" 

"  Mother,  I  will  tell  you.  I  know  that  many  would 
deem  me  a  romantic  visionary,  but  my  longing  desire  is  to 
tread  the  path  of  fame,  by  the  pen  of  literature,  or  the 
pencil  of  the  artist — nay,  perchance,  to  unite  the  two,  and 
rank  high,  as  others  have  done  before  me  :  but  to  do  this 
needs  years  of  patient  labor.  I  would  not  come  before 
my  country,  an  unfledged  stripling.  I  could  not  bear  the 
lash  of  criticism.  No ;  either  with  the  pen  or  pencil, 
there  must  be  genius  marked.  I  would  not  have  it  said 
*  in  time  he  will  do  well ;'  I  would  study  under  efficient 
masters,  be  sure  of  my  position,  and  then  assume  it,  and 
feel  I  have  not  lived  in  vain." 

He  ceased  abruptly,  reading  his  mother's  tearful  sympa 
thy  in  the  trembling  pressure  of  her  hands  ;  but  the  glow 
passed  from  his  beautiful  features. 

"But  this  is  folly,"   he  continued.     "Mother,  dearest 


7G  woman's  FE.I  ENDS  III  r. 

your  Walter  will  prove  himself  worthy  of  his  fathei  ana 
of  you.  My  sisters  shall  not  miss  their  father  while  theii 
brother  lives." 

"  But,  my  AYalter,  bodily  weakness  as  well  as  rneutaJ 
taste  disincline  you  lor  the  exertion  you  propose." 

*'  No,  mother,  if  health  will  bear  up  against  the  laboi 
of  mind,  or  rather  that  which  men  term  mental  labor — 
for  I  have  felt  it  not — will  it  not  against  mere  mechanical 
employment  ?  Do  not  fear  me,  mother  ;  I  am  happier 
already,  having  spoken  ;  und  I  shall  be  happier  still,  when, 
by  the  performance  of  my  duty,  I  can  add  to  the  comfort 
of  my  sisters  and  yourself," — and  throwing  himself  on  his 
knees  before  his  mother,  he  kissed  away  her  tears,  and 
talked  cheerfully  of  other  things,  till  the  widow  smiled 
again. 

Unhappily  for  Walter's  real  interests,  the  friends  he 
consulted  were  not  of  the  class  which,  appreciatmg  his 
high  endowments,  would  give  them  the  encouragement 
they  needed.  Almost  as  rare  as  genius  itself,  is  (perhaps 
from  their  near  connection) — 

"  The  power 
Of  feeling  where  true  geriitis  lies." 

And  that  power  is  not  to  be  found  amongst  those  wtic, 
accustomed  to  worldly  thoughts  and  uiterests  from  early 
boyhoDd,  and  taught  to  consider  amassing  money  the 
ne  'plus,  ultra  of  human  felicity,  have  neither  time  nor 
inclination  for  any  thing  else.  Mr.  Leslie's  few  ac- 
quaintances were  of  this  worldly  class ;  and  several 
times  he  had  been  accused  of  folly,  by  fostering,  as  he 
did,  what  were  called  Walter's  excessive  indolence  and 
romance. 

Amongst  these,  Walter  v/as  of  course  not  likely  to  meet 
with  the  expensive  intellect  and  active  benevolence  which 
he  so  much  needed.  AVhen  he  communicated  his  wishes 
to  obtain  some  employment,  he  was  greeted  with  a  con- 
gratulatory shake  of  the  hand,  that  he  had  awakened  at 
length  with  spirit  to  be  a  man,  and  to  throw  off  all  the 
•die  fancies  his  poor  father's  weak  indulgence  had  so 
cgregiously  encouraged. 


woman's   friendship.  77 

Almost  sick  with  anguish  did  poor  Walter  turn  at  such 
speeches ;  for  more  and  more  heavily  the  couviction  pressed 
upon  him,  that  he  had  in  truth  not  one  Iriend  who  could 
understand,  and,  understanding,  aid  him ;  lie  scarcely  could 
define  how,  but  still  he  felt  that  there  had  been  oth-ers  in 
the  same  position,  and  that  they  had  found  sympathizing 
friends,  who  brought  them  forward  from  obscurity,  and 
enabled  them  to  win,  by  the  proper  cultivation  of  their  tal- 
ents, a  station  for  themselves. 

"Walter  knew  his  own  power ;  felt  that,  young  as  he 
was,  his  nature  was  higher  than  that  of  his  fellows,  his 
views  more  exalted  ;  and  it  was  difficult  to  him  to  beUeve 
that  He  stood  so  utterly  alone  that  his  talents  were  to  re- 
main disregarded  and  neglected.  He  had  still  the  bitter 
Ic'dson  to  learn,  that  unless  'their  lot  be  among  the  inde- 
pendent and  influential  of  the  land,  the  gifted  but  too 
often  stand  alone,  from  the  high  aspirations  feeding  on 
themselves ;  the  vain  yearners  ibr  what  this  world  may 
not  give  ;  for  what  is  genius  ?  A  spark  from  that  fountain 
of  living  light  around  the  Eternal's  throne — a  link  of  that 
golden  chain  by  which  this  world  is  suspended  from  its 
parent  heaven,  invisible  to  all  save  its  possessors,  sometimes 
not  even  to  them,  ^according  as  the  immortal  mind  is 
dimmed  by  the  shade  of  earth,  or  touched  by  the  dazzHng 
rays  of  heaven. 

While  his  friends  were  actively  endeavoring  to  procure 
him  some  advantageous  situation,  Walter  learned  that  an. 
apprentice  was  wanted  by  one  of  the  most  influential  en- 
gravers of  the  metropolis.  He  sought  the  estabhshment 
directly,  and  was  received  poUtely,  but  coldly. 

"Such  a  press  of  applicants  there  were,"  Mr.  Markham 
said,  "  that  really  unless  the  candidates  could  bring  ere- 
d^jitials  from  experienced  ir.3n  in  the  art,  it  was  almost 
impossible  to  give  them  the  attention  they  might  de- 
serve." 

"  No  such  condition  had  been  made  in  the  advertise- 
ment," Walter  said,  and  added,  perhaps  somewhat  proudly, 
'•  that  had  he  known  such  was  needed,  he  would  not  have 
intruded.     He  thought  ability  the  desired  criterion." 

"  AbiUty  I  oh  !  of  course,  that  would  be  proved  by  the 
uccessary  credentials.     He  would,  however,  be  haupv  tii 


78  WOMAN    S    FrwIENDSHIP 

look  over  Mr.  Leslie's  portfolio  ;  he  supposed  he  knew  some- 
thing of  the  art,  as  he  did  not  look  so  very  young  as  to  be^ 
gin  from  the  very  beginning." 

lYalter  answered  with  simplicity  and  truth ;  and  mod 
estly  miclasping  his  portfoho,  he  placed  it  before  Mr.  Mark- 
ham. 

A  very  casual  glance  sufficed  to  convince  the  engraver 
that  there  was  no  ordinary  genius  impressed  in  those 
simple  drawings  ;  but  he  was  too  much  a  man  of  the 
world,  and  of  worldly  interests,  to  express  admiration  till 
he  could  feel  his  way. 

"Very  good,  very  good,"  he  said.  "If  we  can  come  to 
terms,  why  engra^dng  may  be  no  hard  matter  after  all.  I 
have  had  youngsters  who  did  not  give  so  much  promise, 
and  yet  did  well.  You  have  friends,  I  suppose,  willing  to 
pay  the  necessary  premium  for  the  advantages  which  an 
apprenticeship  in  my  studio  offers  ?" 

Walter  felt  the  hot  blood  burn  in  his  cheek,  though  he 
struggled  against  it  calmly  to  say  "that  he  w^as  not  so  pro- 
vided. He  was  the  ordy  son  of  a  widoAved  mother,  caring 
not  how  hard  he  labored,  but  the  premium  Mr.  Markham 
demanded  was  certainly  not  in  his  power  to  give.  He  had 
hoped  that  his  abilities,  his  love  of  the  art " 

He  stopped,  for  the  countenance  of  his  hearer  became 
hard  as  iron — only  varied  by  a  slight  kind  of  sneer.  He 
closed  the  portfolio,  and  very  pohtely  said, 

"  The  thing  was  impossible.  -He  had  only  too  many 
candidates  offering  yet  more  than  he  demanded ;  the  diffi- 
culty, in  fact,  was  whom  to  choose.  He  was  sorry  Mr. 
Leslie  should  have  taken  the  trouble  to  call,  as  he  believed 
the  advertisement  had  particularly  mentioned  premium. 
He  regretted  being  obliged  to  shorten  their  interview — but 
— a  particular  engagement — " 

Walter  bowed  proudly  and  retired.  #* 

"Perhaps,  after  all,  I  have  not  the  gift  I  dreamed  1 
had,"  he  said  internally,  as  slowly  he  paced  the  crowded 
Btrests,  alone  amidst  thousands.  "  Surely,  had  there  been 
any  promise  of  talent,  he  would  have  said  so,  though  he 
could  not  serve  me.  I  heard  he  was  an  artist  himself, 
discerning  and  impartial. .  Perhaps  it  is  better  he  did  not. 
\  may  more  easily  reconcile  myself  to  other  employment." 


woman's     FRIENDiSlilP.  79 

But  still,  the  wish  once  excited,  that  hy  engravh.g  he 
might  not  entirely  neglect  the  pencil,  would  not  let  him 
rest ;  and  he  sought  the  friend  most  sincerely  interested  in 
his  welfare,  to  obtain  his  assistance  in  furthering  the  plan 
He  found  him,  however,  much,  averse  to  it. 

"  It  was  necessary,"  he  said,  "  that  Walter  should  ob- 
tain some  situation  which  would  pay  directly.  He  had 
heard  that  a  large  estabUshment  connected  with  the  East 
India  House  was  offering  £50  per  annum,  with  a  promise 
of  raising  it  gradually  till  it  reached  £200,  to  any  one  who 
knew  something  of  the  oriental  languages,  as  well  as  those 
of  Europe." 

Knowing  that  "Walter  did  this,  his  friend  advised  him  to. 
prove  that  his  wish  for  employment  was  no  idle  profession 
by  securing  it  directly.  He  argued  so  successfully  that 
Walter  sought  the  head  of  the  establishment  that  very 
hour,  gave  such  proof  of  his  skill  in  languages  and  penman- 
ship as  caused  the  greatest  satisfaction,  and  was  engaged ; 
the  whole  business  irrevocably  settled,  ere  he  turned  his 
weary  footsteps  home. 


CHAPTER  Xm. 


ESTRANGEMENT   AND    NEGLECT. — WOODLANDS. — PARTING   WORDS 
REMEMBERED. — FLORA. 

It  is  straTige  and  sad  that  any  trial,  instead  of  deadening 
our  faculties,  save  to  the  one  source  of  grief,  so  awakens 
every  susceptibility  to  pain,  and  so  opens  the  varied 
sluices  of  the  human  heart,  that  all  its  mysterious 
yearnings  lie  unsealed  before  us.  In  the  calm  and 
cheerful  tenor  of  her  previous  life  Florence  had  never 
felt  lonely,  though  one  by  one  the  young  companions  ol 
her  youth  faded  from  her  path.  Change  in  character  or 
situation  which  time  must  produce  had  dissolved  this  in- 
tercourse unconsciously  and  without  pain  ;  but  with  Emily 
Melford  the  case  was  different.  Florence  never  could 
forget  those  who  had  once  been  kind  ;  and  Emily  had, 
through  two  years'  regular  and   frequent  corre«pondence, 


80  WOMAN    S     FRIENDSHIP. 

BO  completely  treated  her  as  a  confidential  frien'J,  that 
Florence  could  scarcely  think  of  change  in  her,  even 
while  she  had  long  lelt  that  her  simple  pleasures  or 
anxieties  obtained  no  sympathy.  Emily  always  wrote  of 
herself,  and  Florence's  self-love  might  have  been  flattered, 
as  there  is  always  something  soothing  to  our  amour  propre 
in  being  the  trusted  repository  of  another  person's  secrets. 
The  third  year  of  their  intqrcourse,  however,  Emily's 
letters  came  at  longer  and  longer  intervals,  on  smaller 
sized  paper,  and  in  wider  lines,  till  at  last  they  ceased 
altogether.  Florence's  last  communication  having  bsen 
answered,  after  an  interval  of  four  months,  by  a  few 
hurried  and  irrelevant  lines,  she  could  not  v/rite  again ; 
more  particularly  as  this  occurred  just  about  the  time  of 
the  offer  of  marriage  to  which  we  have  before  alluded. 
Thus,  followed  as  it  had  been  in  tAvo  short  months  by 
Mr.  Leslie's  death,  weeks  passed  and  the  intercourse  was 
not  renewed,  and  when  Florence  awoke  from  the  first 
stupor  of  anguish,  to  outward  and  more  trifling  things,  it 
was  to  the  bitter  consciousness  of  estrangemont  and  neg- 
lect. 

Mr.  Leslie's  death  had  been  in  all  the  newspapers,  and 
still  with  the  clinging  confidence  of  her  nature,  Florence 
believed  that  Emily  would  not,  could  not  be  so  engrossed 
in  self,  as  to  permit  such  a  bereavement  to  pass  mino- 
ticed.  But  she  hoped  m  vain.  She  knew  by  the  fashion- 
able journals,  that  all  the  Melfords  were  in  London. 
She  was  even  foolish  enough  to  hope  that  Emily  was 
coming  to  speak  her  sympathy,  and  therefore  would  not 
write — but  neither  visit  nor  letter  came. 

With  Lady  Ida,  Florence  had  never  been  a  regular 
correspondent.  Her  shrmking  sensitiveness  always  kept 
her  back,  fearful  to  intrude  ;  feeluig  that  a  wider  barrier 
stretched  between  her  and  Lady  Ida  when  in  joy,  than 
when  she  had  been  in  sorrow.  She  had  written,  indeed, 
whenever  Lady  Ida's  own  messages,  Emily's  offers  of  op- 
portmiities,  and  her  own  mood  of  hilarity,  had  given  her 
courage  to  do  so.  But  this  was  over  now,  for  Emily 
Melfbrd  v/as  the  only  one  through  whom  she  could  hear 
of  Lady  Ida ;  and  it  seemed  as  if  now,  she  dared  not  en- 
courage   those   visions    of    Lady   Ida's    continued    regard 


woman's    FE.IENDSH1P  81 

in  vvhich  she  had  indulged  so  long.  Since  her  hereave- 
nient,  all  felt  changed  aroiond  and  luithin  her.  She  asked 
herself  why  such  bitter  thoughts  should  come,  when  surely 
she  had  enough  of  sorrow  ?  But  she  could  not  answer, 
and  her  warm  affections  twined  closer  and  closer  round 
the  beloved  inmates  of  her  home,  seeking  to  banish  hei 
own  sad  thoughts  in  entire  devotion  to  those  around 
her. 

As  the  growth  of  affection  supposes  the  existence  of 
good  qualities,  and  from  the  regard  of  others  permits  us 
to  form  a  higher  estimate  of  ourselves,  so  the  ^oss  of  it 
supposes  a  decay  of  those  qualities ;  and  lowering  us  in 
our  self-esteem,  it  is  long  before  the  wounded  spirit  can 
throw  aside  the  false  idea  and  regain  its  former  position. 
Oh  !  too  sadly  and  closely  is  the  happiness  of  man  en- 
twined with  his  fellow-man  ;  or  rather,  too  lightly  is  such 
cruth  considered.  How  much  of  misery  might  be  soothed 
were  sorrow  cheered  ;  were  mutual  kindness  the  grand  object 
of  life  ;  were  social  benevolence  to  walk  the  earth,  giving 
her  blessed  balm  to  those  that  weep,  and  her  gladdening 
words  to  those  that  smile  I 

Perceiving  that  Florence,  in  spite  of  all  her  efibrts,  did 
not  rally  either  in  spirits  or  health,  Mrs.  Leshe  at  length 
prevailed  on  her  to  accept  Mrs.  Kivers'  repeated  invita- 
tions, and  spend  a  short  time  at  "Woodlands.  Florence 
consented  with  reluctance.  Her  mind  was  just  at  that 
time  in  a  state  of  painful  uncertainty ;  of  earnest  longings 
in  thought,  aj.d  a  too  sensitive  fearfulness  in  performance. 
The  love  she  bore  her  brother  exceeded  the  mere  affection 
of  hand-in-hand  companionship.  His  high  feelings,  his 
poet's  soul,  his  precarious  health,  bound  him  to  her  with 
ties  of  tenderness  and  almost  veneration,  which  year  by 
year  increased. 

Lady  Ida's  parting  words — "  If  in  any  thing  you  need  me, 
or  believe  my  frieniship  or  influence  can  be  of  any  service 
to  you,  write  without  scruple,"  returned  to  her  memory  re- 
peatedly. Her  influence  or  that  of  her  husband  might  in- 
deed be  of  unspeakable  service  to  "Walter,  and  might  she 
indeed  ask  it  for  him  ? 

At  Woodlands  these  thoughts  continued.  It  was  not 
too  late,  for  he  was  not  bound  to  his  present  employment 


82   .  woman's   friendship. 

for  any  determinate  period.  Had  Lady  Ida  never  been 
kind,  almost  a  stranger,  Florence  could  have  appealed  to 
her  without  any  hesitation  :  but  the  dread  of  asking  too 
much  she  knew  not  how  to  overcome.  Walter's  figure 
rose  before  her,  paler,  thinner  than  it  had  been,  with  that 
sad,  but  unspeakably  beautiful  expression  which  she  had 
marked,  when  he  told  them  a  situation  was  obtamed — and 
this  nerved  her  to  the  task. 

It  was  not  an  easy  one,  for  she  would  not  give  vent  to 
the  gush  of  feeling  which  came  over  her  ;  but  simply  and 
mournfully  alludmg  to  her  father's  death  and  the  con- 
sequent  change  in  Walter's  prospects,  made  him,  and  him 
alone,  the  subject  of  her  letter.  She  wrote  with  afiec- 
tionate  eloquence  of  his  talents  and  peculiar  character; 
and  then  alluding  to  Lady  Ida's  parting  words,  entreated 
that  the  friendship,  the  influence  she  had  promised  her, 
might  be  shown  to  her  brother.  Not  one  word  in  that 
eloquent  letter  was  lowering  to  the  writer,  or  derogatory  to 
the  true  benevolence  of  the  receiver.  The  spell  once  bro- 
ken, Florence  was  true  to  herself  and  to  her  friend ;  and 
materially  might  that  letter  have  altered  Walter's  pros- 
pects, had  it  been  permitted  to  reach  its  destination.  To 
account  for  its  fate,  we  must  go  back  a  space. 

Wo  have  before  mentioned  Mrs.  Rivers  and  her  estab- 
lishment, and  that  with  Flora  rLeslie,  whose  similarity  of 
name  proved  afterwards  a  most  annoying  circumstance, 
Florence  had  no  idea  or  feeling  in  common ;  nay,  she  had 
so  peietrated  her  system  of  deceit  with  regard  to  her  gen- 
erous protectress,  that  though  no  look  or  word  ever  be- 
trayed this  to  Mrs.  Rivers  herself,  Flora's  own  suspicions 
were  aroused,  and  envy,  with  its  whole  train  of  bad  thoughts 
and  actions,  was  excited  towards  her.  A  circumstance  had 
also  occurred  which  increased  these  feelings  into  active  vir- 
ulence. Mrs.  Rivers  herself  lived  very  much  retired,  and 
nothing  could  ever  prevail  on  her  to  join  in  society ;  but 
suice  Woodlands  Avas  in  the  vicinity  of  a  large  country 
town,  where  there  was  much  public  and  private  gayety, 
often  enlivened  by  military  officers.  Flora  Leslie  was  per- 
mitted to  go  out  with  one  or  another  chapero7ie  of  Mrs 
Rivers'  selection  and  approval. 

How   the   young    lady   conducted    herself    in    society, 


woman's  friendship.  83 

therefore,  Mrs.  Kivers  never  knew,  and  any  tale  brought 
to  her  by  others  of  her  proUgte,  she  made  it  a  pomt  to 
disbeheve,  from  her  received  faith  m  the  world's  proneness 
to  mjure  and  malign.  It  so  happened  that  an  afiair  more 
than  usually  scandalous  became  so  notorious  as  not  only  to 
penetrate  the  walls  of  Woodlands,  but  the  ears  of  its  mis- 
tress, just  at  the  time  when  Florence  was  staying  with  her, 
after  her  father's  death,  when  she  of  course  could  not  ac- 
company Flora  into  visiting  society,  as  she  had  sometimes 
done  before. 

Mrs.  Rivers  never  made  a  confusion.  She  quietly 
inquired  all  that  was  necessary,  and  then  charged  the 
young  lady  with  the  fact.  Her  distrust  of  the  world 
worked  even  here,  and  Flora's  protestations  and  assurances 
of  no  intentional  ill  might  have  weighed  against  the  voice 
of  rumor,  had  she  not  unfortunately  remembered  that 
Florence  had  been  sometimes  Flora's  companion  in  society, 
and  appealed  to  her  judgment  for  the  truth  or  falsehood  of 
the  charge.  Had  she  ever  observed  any  thing  in  her  former 
conduct  to  demand  present  belief  ? 

Now  it  unfortunately  happened  that  it  was  the  very 
witnessing  Flora's  imprudent  conduct,  when  not  under  Mrs. 
E,ivers'  eye,  which  had  first  awakened  Florence  to  a  true 
estimate  of  her  character.  A  circumstance  most  degrading 
m  its  nature,  too,  had  the  year  before  come  under  her  know- 
ledge ;  and  this  appeal  from  Mrs.  Rivers  was,  in  consequence, 
peculiarly  and  painfully  distressing.  In  vain  she  conjured 
Mrs,  Uivers  to  ask  her  nothing  ;  not  to  compel  her  to  be 
that  most  hateful  of  all  characters,  a  talebearer. 

Mrs.  Rivers,  always  obstinate,  became  more  so,  saying 
so  much,  and  that  so  bitterly,  that  Florence  at  last  believed 
the  truth  would  do  Flora  less  harm  than  the  concealment. 
The  consequence  was  that  Mrs.  Rivers  believed  half  the 
reported  tale,  and  so  far  restramed  Flora  as  to  declare  that 
she  should  not  go  out  again  till  people  had  forgotten  her 
former  conduct,  and  she  knew  how  to  behave  properly. 

In  outward  appearance.  Flora  was  very  humble  and 
submissive ;  protesting  that  all  Mrs.  Rivers  said  was 
perfectly  just,  and  that  she  bore  no  ill-will  to  Florence,  for 
she  knew  she  would  not  have  said  a  word  agamst  her,  un- 
less  compelled.      Florence  had  no  faith   in   Flora's    pro* 


84  woman's  friendship. 

fesslons — tlicy  were  not  natural ;  still  her  own  coi\scioiice 
BO  completely  acquitted  her  of  all  intentional  unkiudiiess, 
that  she  never  dreamed  of  enmity,  and  still  less  of  any 
personal  evil  which  might  thence  accrue.  Perhaps  she 
thought  less  of  the  circumstance  because,  just  then,  her 
mind  was  pre-occupied  by  her  intended  letter  to  Lady  Ida. 
In  former  visits  to  Woodlands  she  had  repeatedly  spoken  of 
this  noble  friend.  Mrs.  Rivers  had  Hstened  mournfully 
to  these  artless  efiusions  ;  still  there  was  somethmg  in  the 
simple  trustfulness  of  Florence  so  beautiful,  so  refreshing, 
that  she  could  not  check  it  by  allusions  to  its  folly.  At 
this  visit,  however,  she  noticed  that  Florence  was  greatly 
changed.  Not  having  seen  her  for  nearly  a  year,  it  Avas 
scarcely  strange  that  the  deeper  thoughtfuhiess,  the  de- 
creasing elasticity  of  joyousness,  the  calmer,  sadder  mood, 
should  strike  her  more  forcibly  than  it  had  done  Mrs. 
Leslie.  It  chanced  that  Florence  had  been  speaking  of 
her  brother — her  anxious  desire  that  he  should  obtain  more 
congenial  employment — and  Mrs.  Hivers  took  the  opportu- 
nity to  remark, 

"I  should  thinli:  Lady  Ida  St.  Maur  might  assist  your 
wishes,  through  her  husband's  influence.  Yfhy  not  wiite 
to  her  ?" 

Florence  answered  she  had  serious  intentions  of  doing  so, 
and  she  was  xery  glad  Mrs.  Rivers  advised  what  her  cwn 
inclination  so  earnestly  prompted. 

"  Advise,  my  dear  child ;  do  not  fancy  I  advise  :  I  can- 
not do  so,  because  I  believe  that,  like  all  the  rest  of  the 
world.  Lady  Ida  proves  that  out  of  sight  is  out  of  mind. 
And  Florence  Leshe  is  now,  to  her,  as  if  she  had  never 
been."  ' 

Florence  made  no  answer. 

"  You  do  not  think  so.     Pity  the  dream  will  not  last.  * 

"  Perhaps  it  continues,  dear  madam,  because  I  do  not 
expect  too  much.  No  one  feels  more  than  I  do  myself 
the  distance  between  me  and  Lady  Ida;  that,  according 
to  the  rules  of  the  world,  we  can  hardly  ever  mingle  inti- 
mtitely  again.  And  as  for  pushing  myself  forward,  or 
murmuring  that  my  lot  is  lowlier  than  hers,  I  trust  I  shall 
ftever  be  so  tempted  as  to  do." 


woman's    FRIENDSHir.  85 

"And  yet  you  love  her — waste  your  afTections  on  one 
who,  you  own  yourself,  can  give  you  so  little  in  return. 
Are  you  not  \^dlfully  exposing  yourself  to  pain?" 

"  No ;  for  it  is  a  pleasure  to  have  one,  hke  her,  on 
whose  high  and  beautiful  character  aflection  and  fancy 
can  both  rest.  I  have  seen  enough  of  Lady  Ida  to  respect 
her,  felt  enough  of  her  kindness  to  remember  her  with 
gratitude.  Every  message  I  received  from  her  tells  me 
that  she  still  retains  afiectionate  interest  in  my  welfare  ; 
and  as  I  expect  so  little,  until  that  expectation  be  utterly 
bhghted,  I  will  love  her  still." 

Mrs.  E-ivers  shaded  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  and  did  not 
answer  for  some  minutes. 

"  And  how  long  is  it  since  you  have  heaid  of  her?"  at 
length  she  asked  abruptly. 

It  was  a  diihcult  question  to  answer  v/ithout  alluding  to 
her  disappointment  in  Emily  Melford,  but  she  simply  re- 
plied, "  rather  more  than  a  year." 

"  And  yet  you  have  the  courage  to  address  her  hi 
Walter's  behalf  I" 

"  I  have ;  for  I  am  certain,  if  she  cannot  forward  my 
wdshes  for  my  brother,  she  will  write,  if  it  be  but  to  say 
how  much  she  feels  with  me  on — on — "  her  voice  pahi- 
fully  quivered,  "  the  loss  of  my  dear  father." 

"  And  suppose  that  you  receive  no  answer  to  youi 
letter  ?  AYill  you  be  unwise  enough  to  think  about  hei 
still?" 

Florence  was  silent. 

•*  My  letter  may  rever  reach  her,  a  thousand  chances — " 
she  faltered. 

"My  dear  foolish  child,  if  you  send  your  letter  hy 
post,  and  know  her  proper  direction,  you  have  not  the 
hairhreadth  of  a  chance  that  it  should  not  reach  her. 
"Write  to  ner  as  you  propose ;  if  she  do  any  thing  for  your 
brother,  you  have  my  free  permission  to  love,  respect,  and 
trust  her  as  much  as  you  please ;  but  if  no  answer  come 
trust  my  experience,  bitter  though  it  be,  and  be  sxire  a 
year  or  tAvo  years  is  the  longest  term  that  the  warmest 
friendship,  the  most  affectionate  interest  ever  lasted,  and 
wonderful  if  it  last  so  long." 

She  left  the  room  as  she  spoke,  and  Florence  le<  hei 
8 


B6  woman's  friendship. 

work   fall   from   her   lap,    and    clasping    her   hands,    ex 
claimed — 

"If  I  may  not  hope — may  not  trust — why  should  I 
write  at  all  ?  why  expose  myself  to  the  pain  of  feehng, 
that  in  one  so  good,  so  kind,  I  have  in  truth  no  interest 
now  ;  but  if  indeed  no  answer  come,  surely  I  am  too  proud 
to  care  for  those  who  never  thmk  of  me  " 

But  the  expression  of  her  countenance  belied  her  words, 
and  Flora  Leslie  could  scarcely  restrain  the  delight,  the 
triumph  of  feeling  that  revenge  the  more  violently  desired, 
because  so  long  restrained,  was  in  her  power,  and  cost 
what  it  might  to  compass,  should  bo  obtained 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE    LETTER  ABSTRACTED   AND   ITS   SUBSTITUTE. — FLORA   AGAIN, 

One  of  Mrs.  Rivers'  numerous  particularities  was  ex- 
cessive care,  Avith  regard  to  the  sendmg  and  receiving 
letters,  ahvays  dispatching  her  confidential  steward  to 
receive  them  from,  and  take  them  to,  the  office,  which  was 
m  Winchester.  The  key  of  the  letter-bag  was  kept  in  the 
steward's  room,  and  of  her  letter's  fate  in  England  Flo- 
rence felt  secure,  nor  could  she  doubt  that  it  would  reach 
its  destination. 

Little  could  her  pure  mind  imagine  the  extent  of  mean- 
ness to  which  hatred  and  revenge  could  lead  her  com- 
panion ;  and  still  less  could  Mrs.  Rivers  believe  that  all 
her  precautions  with  regard  to  the  security  of  letters 
should  be  frustrated  by  the  machinations  of  a  girl.  The 
key  was  removed  at  dead  of  night  from  the  steward's 
room,  the  bag  unclosed,  the  letter  abstracted,  the  key 
returned  to  its  place,  and,  m  less  than  ten  mmutes.  Flora 
Leslie  was  again  seated  in  her  own  apartment,  unsuspected 
and  unheard.  Her  step  was  too  light,  her  measures  too 
artful  for  discovery  ;  and  she  sat  beside  the  hearth,  whose 
embers  were  still   burning,  scarcely  able   to  beUeve   that 


womain's  friendship.  87 

Hie  act  of  villany,  which  had  caused  her  so  many  sleepless 
nights  to  plan,  had  been  so  easily  accomplished. 

For  a  moment  she  hesitated  whether  to  read  before  she 
burned ;  but  it  was  only  for  a  moment.  She  tore  open 
the  letter,  and  revelled  as  she  read,  for  every  line  breathed 
that  simple  trusting  aflection,  that  respectful  deference, 
which,  if  unanswered,  would  be  so  deeply  wounding. 

With  all  the  feelings  of  gratified  revenge  Flora  sat 
looking  on  the  letter,  when  she  was  startled  by  a  sudden 
thought.  The  steward  would  have  to  give  Mrs.  Eivcrs  an 
account  of  the  postage  which  he  would  have  to  pay  upon 
this  foreign  letter,  and  Florence's  great  anxiety  v/ould,  of 
course  make  her  inquisitive  into  this  matter.  What  was 
to  be  done  ?  a  very  lew  minutes'  thought  sufficed  ;  for  the 
wicked  are  only  too  quick  at  expedients. 

To  please  Mrs.  Rivers,  Florence  had  once  consented  to 
take  some  lessons  with  Flora  of  one  of  those  professors  of 
penmanship  taught  in  six  lessons ;  and,  in  consequence, 
their  hand-writing  became  so  exactly  similar,  that  with 
scarcely  any  effort  each  could  so  imitate  the  v/riting  of  the 
other,  as  to  render  the  distinguishing  them  almost  impos- 
sible. It  was  a  dangerous  w^eapon  for  one  like  Flora,  and 
httle  did  Florence  imagine  that  what  she  had  done  for 
mere  amusement  was  sedulously  cultivated  by  her  com- 
panion. She  had,  in  fact,  ah'eady  used  it,  in  order  that  a 
correspondence  with  a  handsome  young  ensign  ui  the 
town,  carried  on  through  a  convenient  female  friend, 
mii,'ht  never  be  traced  so  exactly  to  her  as  to  become  in- 
cvy.ivenient  or  disagreeable  ;  particularly  as  she  had  taken 
the  liberty  of  substituting  the  name  of  Florence  instead  of 
Flora  LesHe,  by  wiy  of  signature  ;  silencing  the  "  still 
small  vo^2e  of  conscience,"  by  pretending  that  the  great 
similarity  of  names  removed  all  idea  of  dishonor  :  for  all 
she  knew,  she  might  have  been  christened  Florence,  and 
called  Flora,  as  many  others  were — she  certainly  did  no 
harm,  to  adopt  the  prettier  cognomen  ;  how  many  girls 
engaged  in  a  love  correspondence  adopted  other  names 
than  their  own  ! 

This  power,  of  course,  presented  an  expedient  hi  her 
present  dilemma.  With  some  difficulty  she  concocted  a 
few  li»^s,  for  to  make  composition  appear  like  her  com- 


88  woman's  friendship. 

panioii's  was  iufuiitely  more  difTicult  than  to  imitate  liei 
writing;  but  to  send  merely  a  blank  sheet  might,  she 
thought,  excite  inquiries,  and  bring  all  to  light  too  soon 
A  brief  epistle  was  at  length  written,  alluding  neither  to 
Walter  nor  Mr.  Leslie's  death,  but  breathing  a  degree  of 
levity  and  frivolity  wholly  unlike  Florence  at  any  time, 
even  in  her  gayest  moods — and  wanting,  besides,  that 
genuine  heartlelt  respect  which  had  ever  pervaded  her 
most  careless  efllisions. 

That  Lady  Ida  should  ever  demand  the  meaning  of  this 
unusual  letter  was  too  simple  and  straightforAvard  a  method 
of  proceeding  for  Flora's  crooked  comprehension ;  she 
hoped  and  believed  it  would  so  offend,  that  Lady  Ida 
would  never  again  seek  her ;  answer  by  letter,  of  course 
she  would  not,  and  Florence  would,  in  consequence,  suffer 
as  much  as  her  revengeful  wishes  could  desire.  Carefully 
written  on  foreign  paper,  folded,  sealed,  and  directed  so 
like  the  real  one,  that  Florence  herself  would  have  hesi- 
tited  which  to  call  her  own.  Flora  again  stealthily  made 
her  v/ay  to  the  letter-bag,  put  the  letter  into  it,  and  re- 
turned undiscovered  to  her  own  quarters  ;  then,  deliber- 
ately tearing  Florence's  letter  into  pieces,  she  committed 
each  separately  to  the  flames,  watching  them  burn  till  not 
a  vestige  remained ;  then,  carefully  collecting  the  smould- 
ering ashes,  she  flung  them  anew  on  the  fire,  that  no  sign 
of  paper  might  be  found  amongst  the  cinders  the  following 
morning.  This  accomplished,  she  threw  herself  on  her 
bed,  \vhether  to  sleep  or  not  we  leave  more  imaginative 
persons  to  determine. 

"You  are  sure,  quite  sure,  "Watson,  the  letter  to  Lady 
Ida  St.  Maur  was  safely  deposited  in  the  post  ?"  Florence 
eagerly  asked  the  steward,  the  moment  of  his  return  ;  and 
satisfied  by  his  exact  description  of  the  letter  which  she 
had  purposely  retrained  from  showing  him,  and  of  the  sura 
paid  for  its  postage,  she  rested  secure  and  happy. 

A  month,  nay,  perhaps  two,  might  elapse  before  she 
could  receive  an  answer ;  but  the  letter  was  no  sooner 
thought  to  be  safely  gone,  than  hope  began  her  work  ;  and 
though  Florence  thought  she  did  not  hope  at  all,  her 
Bpirits  unconsciously  grew  light,  and  the  smile  more  often 
circled  her  lip.     She  determined  to  say  notliing  of  having 


WOMAN    S    FRIENDSHIP,  89 

written  cither  to  her  mother,  "Walter,  or  e  ni  Minie,  in 
order  that  the  pleasure  of  reading  them  La^iy  Ida's  letter 
might  be  the  greater. 

Before  the  visit  of  "Woodlands  was  over,  however,  her 
thoughts  were  turned  from  her  brother's  interests  into  a 
more  painful  channel.  The  last  blow  on  Mrs.  Uivers'  in 
reality  too  susceptible  heart,  was  struck,  as  Florence  had 
}ong  predicted,  by  the  orphan  whom  she  had  adopted, 
treated,  loved,  and  confided  in,  as  her  own  child.  Flora 
Leslie  eloped  from  "Woodlands,  not  with  the  ensign  before 
alluded  to,  but  with  a  gallant  major,  who  had  been  per- 
suaded into  the  belief  that  all  Mrs.  Rivers'  large  property 
was  so  settled  on  Flora  that  it  could  not  be  willed  away ; 
and  that  Flora,  instead  of  being  a  portionless  orphan,  was 
literally  the  rightful  heiress ;  though  Mrs.  Eivers  had  art- 
fully chosen  to  hush  up  that  matter,  and  act  benevolence 
when  she  was  only  doing  justice. 

Thmking  his  charming  Flora  marvellously  ill-used,  and 
that  her  supposed  fortune  would  be  peculiarly  acceptable, 
the  major  made  such  good  use  of  his  time  as  completely 
to  exclude  from  her  fickle  imagination  all  recollection  of 
the  despairing  ensign,  whom,  however,  as  we  have  seen, 
under  a  feigned  hand-writing  and  a  feigned  name,  she  still 
continued  to  encourage.  His  departure  to  join  his  regi- 
ment at  Malta,  a  fortnight  previously,  bearing  Flora's 
precious  letters  with  him,  and  WTiting  her  a  most  lachry- 
mose farewell,  was  particularly  agreeable  to  the  heartless 
coquette,  who  just  then  wished  him  out  of  her  Vv^ay — the 
major  offering  more  substantial  attractions  in  a  handsomer 
face,  a  more  distinguished  manner,  a  supposed  fortune, 
and  higher  rank.  The  well-matched  pair,  in  consequence, 
departed  one  fine  morning  in  a  coach  and  four  to  Gretra, 
where,  it  may  be  as  well  to  state,  the  nuptial  knot  Avas  in- 
dissolubly  tied. 

The  major,  however,  stormed  himself  hoarse  wnen  he 
discovered  that  his  fair  Flora  was  no  heiress,  but  recovered 
a  degree  of  serenity  when  a  deed  of  gift  came  most  unex- 
pectedly from  Mrs.  Rivers,  securing  to  his  wife  a  life 
annuity  of  a  hundred  pounds.  That  this  gift  was  acccom- 
panied  by  a  few  stern  Imes,  impossible  to  be  misunderstood, 
importmg   that   it  was  the  last  communication   bet  wee  r 


90  woman's  friendship. 

Mrs.  Uivers  and  her  ungrateful  protigie,  "who  would  bo 
henceforth  blotted  from  her  recollection,  concerned  not 
the  gallant  major  and  his  amiable  bride  one  tittle,  both 
choosing  to  believe,  from  this  unexpected  generosity,  that 
Mrs.  Rivers  would  still  leave  all  her  property  to  Flora, 
simply  because  there  seemed  no  one  else  to  whom  it  could 
possibly  be  left. 

To  account  for  Major  Hardwicke's  preferring  the  eclaX 
of  an  elopement  to  honorable  proposals,  and  a  public 
engagement,  be  it  known  that  he  had  asked  Mrs.  Rivers, 
in  all  due  form,  for  permission  to  address  Miss  Leslie,  but 
liad  been  peremptorily  refused,  on  plea  of  his  private 
character  not  being  such  as  to  obtain  him  the  hand  of  any 
respectable  young  woman. 

The  rigidity  of  feature,  the  absence  of  all  visible  emotion, 
with  which  Mrs.  Rivers  received  the  tidings  of  Flora's 
flight  absolutely  terrified  Florence  ;  for  she  felt  convinced 
it  was  no  indiiierence  which  caused  it ;  yet  how  to  soothe 
she  knew  not,  for  how  could  she  speak  consolation  where 
none  was  demanded  ?  She  was  treated  as  usual ;  the  whole 
establishment  went  on  as  if  nothing  had  occurred  worthy 
to  disturb  them  ;  but  not  ten  days  after  the  elopement 
Mrs.  Rivers  was  seized  by  a  serious  illness,  which  hung 
over  her  for  weeks,  during  the  whole  of  wdiich  time  Flo- 
rence tended  her  as  a  daughter,  with  a  sweetness  of  temper, 
a  silent  tenderness,  which — though  at  the  time  to  all  ap- 
pearance scarcely  felt — was  remembered  and  acted  x'.pon 
years  afterwards. 

Not  a  word  was  breathed  as  to  what  might  have  been 
the  cause  of  that  illness,  either  by  the  sufferer  herself  or 
any  of  those  around  her  ;  but  when  she  recovered,  she 
formed  the  extraordmary  resolution  of  leaving  her  estate 
of  Woodlands,  with  all  its  adjommg  houses  and  lands, 
under  charge  of  her  steward  till  they  could  be  advanta- 
geously let,  and  retiring  she  did  not  say  where,  and  no  one 
had  courage  to  ask.  There  was  no  persuading  her  to 
forego  this  resolution,  no  arguing  against  it,  for  she  gave 
not  the  slightest  clue  to  any  plan,  except  that  of  leaving 
Woodlands.  She  parted  with  Florence,  Idndly  as  her 
stern  nature  would  peniiit,  and  placed  a  pocket-book  con- 
taining two  fifty  pound  bank-notes   in  her   hand.     From 


woman's   friendship.  91 

that  hour  Florence  Leslie  heard  no  more  of  Mrs.  Rivers, 
h:new  nothing  of  her  place  of  residence,  her  mode  of 
living,  possessed  not  a  clue  even  to  her  existence  till  two 
years  afterwards,  when  she  was  strangely  and  most  unex- 
pectedly recalled. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

SUSPENSE. EROTHER    AND    SISTER. CONFIDENCE. 

The  illness  of  Mrs.  Rivers  had  so  unavoidably  length- 
ened Florence  Leshe's  stay  at  Woodlands,  that  the  two 
months,  to  which  she  had  confidently  looked,  as  bringing 
an  answer  to  her  letter,  had  nearly  elapsed.  During  her 
absence  Mrs.  Leslie  had  removed  to  a  neat  little  dwelling 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Camberwell  ;  a  convenient  distance 
for  Walter's  daily  visits  to  the  metropolis,  and  givmg  him 
fresher  air  and  greater  quietness  on  his  return. 

Florence  rejoiced  in  her  change  of  residence.  Her 
visit  at  Woodlands  had  been  one  of  anxiety  and  care.  She 
felt  for  Mrs.  Rivers  infinitely  more  than  that  lady  seemed 
to  feel  for  herself.  Those  highflown  notions  of  human 
nature,  which  in  former  days  Emily  Melford  used  to  smile 
at  and  Lady  Ida  to  love,  she  still  retained,  and  all  that  oc- 
curred to  shake  her  belief  in  human  goodness  painfully 
depressed  her.  Gladly  then  she  exchanged  the  cold  soli- 
tary splendor  of  Woodlands  for  her  mother's  humble 
dwelling.  Here  there  were  not  so  mtniy  objects  to  recall 
her  departed  parent  as  in  their  former  residence.  He  did 
not  haunt  each  room,  each  nook;  till  he  seemed  almost 
palpably  before  them. 

Grief  itself  was  calmed.  They  could  bear  to  thinlj:  and 
speak  of  him,  as  one  "  not  lost,  but  gone  before."  They 
had  not  sought  to  banish  sorrow,  to  stifle  its  sad  yet 
wholesome  voice  by  seeking  this  world's  pleasures,  for 
they  looked  on  affliction  as  the  voice  of  their  heavenly 
Father  calling  them  still  more  closely  to  himself  The 
tranquil  routine  of  domestic  duties  and  enjoyments  was 
igain  their  own  ;  and  but  for  one  engrossing  care,  Florence 


92  woman's   friendsf'^. 

might  even  have  "been  happy.  But  how  could  this  he,  when 
days,  weeks,  far  more  than  the  necessary  period  rolled  on, 
and  still  no  answer  to  her  letter  came  ;  no  line  to  say  that 
Lady  Ida  Avas  unchanged,  and  could  feel  lor  Florence  still  ? 
Her  simple  confidence  had  almost  led  her  to  believe  tho 
answer  would  he  waiting  for  her  at  home.  Then  she 
sought  to  console  herself  that  she  had  miscalculated  the 
time  ;  hut  when  more  than  three  months  had  passed,  even 
this  consolation  could  no  longer  avail  her  ;  and  still  each 
day,  each  hour  found  poor  Florence  in  all  the  hitter  heart- 
sickness  of  hope  deferred. 

Of  all  human  trials,  not  the  least  is  the  anxiously  ex- 
pecting a  letter  from  a  heloved  friend,  involving  matters  of 
greater  moment  than  mere  personal  gratification.  Tho 
first  thought  in  the  morning,  the  sudden  up  springing  of 
hope,  that  ere  the  night  cometh  suspense  will  he  at  an 
end  ;  the  hounding  of  the  heart,  the  flushing  of  the  cheek 
at  every  step  and  knock,  when  it  nears  the  postman's 
hour — hecoming  more  and  more  intense  at  the  sight  of  a 
letter ;  and  then  the  revulsion  of  blood,  the  sudden  pause 
of  every  pulse,  when  all  is  past,  and  it  is  not  the  lettei 
we  expect — that  is  still  to  come,  and  all  which  we  have 
borne,  even  to  the  .rush  of  hope,  the  sickness  of  disap- 
pointment, must  be  endured  again.  And  then  the  heavy 
sinking  of  the  soul,  the  pressure  of  tears  upon  the  heart 
and  in  the  eye,  tiiough,  perhaps,  none  falls,  when  night 
with  her  silence  and  deep  shadows  and  still  solitude,  comes 
to  tell  us  another  day  is  gone,  and  the  morning's  dream  is 
vain. 

And  %11  this  Florence  had  to  bear  in  silence  and  alone, 
for  she  had  kept  her  resolution,  and  told  none  that  she 
had  written ;  she  rejoiced  that  she  had  not,  for  to  have 
hstened  to  reproach  east  upon  one  still  so  dearly  loved, 
would  but  liave  increased  her  burden.  She  still  heard 
Millie,  often  her  mother,  allude  to  Lady  Ida  in  terms  of 
fond  remembrance,  and  compelled  herself  to  echo  Minie'a 
artless  and  oft-repeated  wish,  that  she  were  again  in  Eng- 
land, to  be  as  kind  to  Florence  as  she  had  been  before, 
even  while  her  OAvn  heart  felt  breaking  beneath  the 
thought,  that  to  her  Lady  Ida  was  as  nothing  now ;  and 
that  her  return  to  England  could  bring  but  increase  of  pain 


woman's  friendship.  93 

But  it  was  not  the  mere  suffering  of  disappointed  friend- 
ship. She  could  bear  her  own  sorroAV  ;  but  her  Walter, 
her  idolized  brother.  Li  vain  she  tried  to  persuade  her- 
self that  even  had  she  heard  from  Lady  Ida,  her  brother's 
interests  might  not  have  been  served.  She  could  not 
believe  Sir  EdiTinund's  power  v/as  so  limited,  and  each 
week,  each  month  which  passed,  leaving  yet  deeper  hectic 
or  more  livid  paleness  on  "Walter's  check — more  fragile 
beauty  on  his  slight  form — increased  the  sufferings  she  en- 
dured. 

It  was  strange  that  these  various  signs  of  waning  health, 
so  noticed  by  her,  should  pass  unseen  by  their  ever  fond 
and  anxious  mother.  Yet  so  it  was.  Mrs.  Leslie  teas  de- 
ceived. Walter's  unwavering  cheerfuhiess  in  his  mother's 
presence,  the  ardor  with  which,  after  eight  or  nine  iiours 
passed  mechanically  at  the  desk,  he  devoted  himself  to 
his  favorite  studies,  coining  mental  gold  from  every 
moment,  seemed  to  satisfy  and  re-assure  her.  Y»lien 
Avearied  with  his  daily  toil,  the  hours  passed  in  study  ap 
peared  so  to  revive  him,  that  all  weariness  vanished  before 
he  retired  to  rest;  animation  glowed  on  his  cheek  and 
sparkled  in  his  eye,  strength  seemed  to  brace  his  limbs, 
and  his  voice  grew  almost  joyous  The  deceptive  dream 
was  strengthened  by  the  fact  that  Mrs,  Leslie  saw  her  son 
but  a  few  minutes  in  her  bed-room  before  he  went  out  in 
the  morning.  Florence  gave  him  his  early  brealdast. 
Florence  it  was  who  noticed  the  excessive  languor,  the 
deadly  paleness,  sometimes  even  the  dewy  moisture  on  his 
Drow  when  he  would  descend  from  his  own  room,  as  if 
sleep,  inster,d  of  refreshmg  and  strengthening,  had  weak- 
ened him  well  nigh  to  exhaustion  ;  and  at  times,  so  sub- 
duing was  the  accompanying  depression,  that  his  struggles 
to  smile  away  his  sister's  anxious  looks  would  end  in  stifled 
hysteric  sobs.  But  yet,  when  they  met  again  at  dmner, 
there  was  no  trace  of  this ;  liis  smile,  Lis  caresses  greeted 
his  fond  mother  as  was  their  wont,  and  night  brought  anew 
its  excitement  and  its  joy. 

.The  bedrooms  of  the  brother  and  sister  were  separated 
by  a  thin  partition,  one  of  whose  small  square  panels 
Elippcd  up  and  down,  forming  a  loop-hole  of  verbal  commu' 


94  woman's    FRIENDSHIP. 

nication  between  the  rooms  which  were  on  the  upper  flooi 
entirely  by  themselves. 

It  was  a  warm  night  in  May,  and  Florence,  after  strug- 
gling with  the  sad  thoughts  which  would  intrude  when  she 
fvas  alone  (for  though  six  months  had  elapsed  since  she 
Jiad  written,  there  still  were  times  when  she  almost  seemed 
to  hope)  had  succeeded  by  full  an  hour's  serious  reading, 
in  obtaining  a  partial  calm.  She  was  roused  by  hearing 
tlie  chimes  of  an  adjoining  church  tell  half  an  hour  after 
midnight,  and  startled  at  finding  it  so  late,  she  hastily 
rose  to  prepare  for  bed.  Glancing  towards  the  panel,  she 
saw  it  had,  as  often  happened,  slid  down  of  itself,  and  she 
approached  to  close  it  softly,  imagimng  her  brother  slept. 
One  glance  undeceived  her.  Through  the  light  drapery 
of.  the  bed,  she  saw  him  bending  over  a  small  table,  evi- 
dently engaged  in  writing.  She  watched  the  rapid  move- 
ment of  his  hand  ;  fast,  faster  yet,  as  if  it  strove  to  keep 
pace  with  the  rush  of  thoughts  within,  until  at  length  he 
raised  his  head  ;  and  oh,  what  a  glow  of  beauty  that 
countenance  disclosed  !  He  passed  his  hand  feebly  across 
liis  brow,  and  then  again  bent  over  the  paper.  Physical 
power  had  departed,  and  the  flush  was  succeeded  by  a 
paleness  as  of  death.  Florence  flew  to  his  side,  she  threw 
her  arms  around  liis  neck,  her  tears  of  sympathy  falling  on 
his  cheek. 

Walter  started  as  if  found  in  guilt ;  but  then,  as  if  he 
could  not  meet  her  half  reproachful,  half  sorrowful  glance, 
he  passionately  exclaimed — 

-*  Florence,  my  own  Florence  !  do  not  reproach  me,  do 
not  tell  me  that  I  should  not  do  this,  that  I  am  wasting  tho 
Ufe  pledged  to  be  devoted  to  you  all — tell  me  not  this,  I 
cannot  bear  it  now." 

"  I  will  not,  Walter  ;  only  trust  me,  as  one  who  can  feel 
with  you  and  for  you,  in  every  pang  and  every  thought ; 
ye.a,  even  to  the  deep,  but,  oh  I  how  dangerous,  joys  of 
ihese  midnight  watchings  I  Would  that  I  could  aid  you 
as  I  love  I.    You  would  have  no  sorrow  then." 

She  folded  closely  and  still  more  fondly  to  him ;  and  long 
and  mournfully  interesting  was  the  conversation  which 
ensued.     Never  were  two  hearts  more  capable  of  ijider* 


woman's   friendship.  95 

standing  each  other  ;  and  "Walter's  overcliai gcd  mind  felt 
inexpressibly  relieved,  as  he  poured  forth  the  whole  torrent 
of  thought  and  feehng  into  her  sympathizing  ear.  ^  Yet 
there  was  no  complaint,  no  murmur  that  his  lot  in  life 
was  cast  so  differently  for  him  from  that  he  would  have  cast 
for  himself  But  to  check  the  torrent  of  poetry  within  him 
was  impossible.  He  had  tried  to  refrain  entirely  from  the 
use  of  either  pen  or  pencil,  thinking  such  neglect  the  best 
method  of  reconciling  himself  to  his  more  distasteful  duties  ; 
but  the  morbid  state  into  which  he  sank  soon  proved  the 
fallacy  of  the  attempt,  and  he  resumed  them.  Elasticity 
and  happiness  appeared  in  consequence  to  return,  and  he 
could  not  believe  that  his  health  was  suffering,  for  at  least 
he  now  slept  calmly ;  when  before  he  had  passed  night  aftei 
night  in  feverish  wakefulness,  or  in  such  sleep  that  it  was 
worse  than  waking. 

"  They  think  me  a  poor  spirited  romantic  fool,"  he 
added,  "  because  I  cannot  join  in  the  sole  ambition  which 
seems  to  engross  my  companions.  Oh,  Florence,  you  know 
not  how  I  hate  that  word  gold  I  Hoav  I  sicken  at  the 
constant  thought  of  interest — wealth — its  omnipotence  !  as 
if  neither  virtue,  nor  goodness,  nor  beauty  could  exist 
without  it.  If  I  could  but  associate  with  higher  and  nobler 
ipinds,  the  drudgery  of  a  distasteful  employment  could  be 
burne." 

"  But  why  heed  the  mere  expression  of  worl-dliness,  my 
Walter  ?  Have  you  not  that  within  you  raising  you  faj 
above  such  petty  minds?" 

"  No,  Florence,  no  !  the  gift  of  poetry  was  never  yet 
sufficient  so  to  elevate  the  poet  as  to  render  him  invulnerable 
to  the  bitter  shafts  of  more  worldly  natures.  He  must  be 
appreciated  by  the  gifted  and  the  good,  or  he  can  have  no 
security,  no  confidence  in  his  own  pov/ers.  He  dares  not 
dream  of  genius  till  it  is  pronounced  his  own.  He  dares 
not  believe  that  his  mind  may  produce  immortal  fruit,  till 

world  has  said  it  :  and  therefore  he  is  so  exposed  to  those 
petty  trials  which  fret  and  vex  the  spirit  far  more  than  one 
weighty  blow." 

*'  But  influence  may  become  your  own,  dearest  Walter. 
We  camiot  know  for  certain  that  this  lawsuit  will  really  be 
decided  against  us,  and  if  gained " 


90  woman's  friendship. 

"  Florence,  1  dare  not  think  of  it.  God  knows,  I  value 
not  fortune  nor  station  for  aught  but  the  good  it  might 
bestow  on  others — that  having  gold,  I  might  not  thinh 
about  it.  That  I  might  associate  with  those  who,  not 
having  to  seek  it,  might  surely  afford  to  devote  their 
mental  energies  to  some  nobler  object.  Italy,  too,  floats 
before  me  in  the  sweet  dream  of  independence — Italy, 
with  its  beautiful  nature,  its  glorious  art ;  and  I  have  pic- 
tured our  wandering  there,  you,  dearest  Florence,  to  satisfy 
your  early  longing,  I,  to  study  in  those  galleries  so  full  of 
genius — study,  venerate,  and,  at  a  respectful  distance, 
follow.  I  might,  indeed,  become  an  artist  then.  Painting 
and  Poetry  shou-ld  go  hand  in  hand  ;  and  then — then — 
but,  oh,  how  dare  I  think  of  these  things,  when  all  may  be 
a  blank  I" 

And,  as  Florence  looked  on  the  flushed  cheek  and  kind- 
ling eye,  on  the  lip  parched  and  dry  with  extreme  excite- 
ment, she  felt,  indeed,  that  such  dreams  were  better 
banished.  AValter  thought  that  they  A^'ere,  but  v/as  it 
natural  that  they  should  be  ?  Florence  knew  too  well  the 
silent  sway  of  hope.  A  clock  striking  two  roused  theia 
from  the  brief  pause  w^hich  had  followed  Walter's  last 
words,  and  claspmg  liis  arms  round  her,  he  bade  her  "  go 
to  bed,  and  God  bless  her  !"  he  had  robbed  her  of  her 
best  sleep,  but  she  knew  not  the  comfort  that  hour  had 
been  to  him. 

"  You  would  tell  me  something  more,  dearest  Walter  ? 
Do  not  hesitate  :  I  am  not  in  the  least  sleepy.  Why  will 
you  not  speak  ?" 

"  Because  my  question  is  such  an  idle  one.  When  do 
Sir  Edmund  and  Lady  Ida  return  to  England?" 

He  felt  his  sister's  hand  tremble  in  his  o^\ai,  and  to  his 
astonishment,  he  saw  her  cheek  pale,  and  her  lip  so  quiver, 
that  for  a  minute  she  could  not  answer.  ' 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,  Walter  ;  you  know  Emily  Melford 
has  long  since  given  up  my  correspondence,  and  I  only 
heard  regularly  of  Lady  Ida  through  her." 

"  Ah,  true  ;  but^'ou  have  v.Titten  sometimes.  Have  you 
Eince my  poor  father ,"  he  stopped. 

"  Once,"  she  replied  hurriedly,  and  almost  inarticulately ; 
"  but  why  do  you  ask  ?" 


woman's  friendship.  97 

"  I  will  1^11  you,  dearest ;  but  do  not  laugh  at  me  ;  1 
have  fancied,  foolishly  jDerhaps,  that  years  of  absence 
would  make  no  difference  in  Lady  Ida,  and  that  through 
your  friendship  I  might  become  acquainted  with  her  hus- 
band ;  and  all  I  hear  of  him,  all  the  world  speaks  of  liim, 
distinguishes  him  for  talent,  genius,  and  yet  more  for  be- 
nevolence. Oh,  Florence,  what  might  not  such  a  friend 
be  to  me  I     My  own  dear  sister,  what  have  I  said  ?" 

Vainly  the  poor  girl  struggled  to  suppress,  or  at  least 
conceal  her  emotion.  She  felt  as  if  the  wdiole  extent  of 
bitterness  and  disappointment  had  not  been  felt  till  that 
moment,  and  her  head  sank  on  her  brother's  shoulder, 
with  a  burst  of  uncontrolled  tears. 

Had  Walter  been  a  philosopher,  he  would  have  endeav- 
ored to  conquer  her  grief  by  sage  reasoning.  He  was  a 
poet,  and,  in  consequence,  owned  the  potency  of  the  law 
of  FEELING  over  and  above  that  of  reason.  And  so  he 
simply  drew  her  closely  to  him,  kissmg  away  the  burning 
tears,  and  whispering  words  of  such  earnest  tenderness 
that  they  only  flowed  the  faster. 

"  My  poor  Florence  I  Bless  you  for  thus  thinking,  thus 
writing  for  me.  Had  your  aflectionate  eloquence  been 
successful,  I  could  not  have  felt  it  more.  Do  not  weep 
thus.  There  may  be  some  mistake,  some  extraordinary 
chance  acting  against  us,  which  will  all  be  made  clear  in 
time.  I  will  not  believe  that  Lady  Ida  is  so  changed.  It 
is  impossible  I  trust  me,  she  will  give  you  cause  to  love 
her  more  fondly  yet.  Now  go  to  rest,  my  own  sweet  sister. 
We  shall  both  be  happier  for  this  night's  pain,  for  we  need 
no  longer  weep  or  smile  alone." 

And  he  was  right.  They  icere  happier.  A  new  spirit 
pervaded  Walter's  duties  and  pursuits.  A  poet  to  be 
happy  must  have  sympathy,  intelligence,  enthusiasm, 
which  will  reflect  back,  and  encourage  his  own  ;  and  in 
Florence,  Walter  realized  all  these  things.  Her  exquisite 
taste,  her  intuitive  perception  of  the  true  and  beautiful, 
allowed  him  to  confide  in  her  judgment,  to  improve  from 
her  suggestions  ;  and  to  her  inexpressible  happiness,  she 
(bund  that  from  that  night  he  was  more  like  himself  For 
her  own  feelings,  they  were  strangely  soothed  by  that  in 
voluntary  confidence ;    conquered,   indeed,  they  were  not, 

9 


98  WOMAN*S    FRIENPSHIP. 

for  she  could  not  share  Walter's  behef.  From  change  oi 
unkindness  in  Lady  Ida,  she  turned  sorrowingly  away  aa 
impossible  ;  but  she  thought  circumstances,  difference  of 
station,  raised,  and  must  forever  raise,  an  insuperable 
barrier  between  them. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


TRUTH   AND   FALSEHOOD. 


►Some  three  months  after  the  conclusion  of  our  last 
chapter,  and  consequently  nearly  nine  from  the  aiTairs 
narrated  at  Woodlands,  two  ladies  were  seated  together  in 
the  balcony  of  a  most  beautiful  villa  in  the  environs  of 
Rome.  It  was  Lady  St.  Maur,  and  her  mother-in-law, 
Lady  Helen.  Time  had  made  little  difference  in  the 
former  ;  the  girl  had,  in  truth,  merged  into  the  woman  ; 
the  flower  was  beautiful  as  the  bud  had  promised.  The 
balcony  where  they  sat  led  by  a  flight  of  steps,  ornamented 
by  a  light  arabesque  balustrade  to  the  garden,  whose  innu- 
merable flowers  sent  forth  such  luscious  scents  as  to  per- 
fume the  air,  almost  overpoweringly,  in  the  still  calm  of 
evening.  Home  on  her  seven  hills  lay  on  their  left,  abso- 
lutely imbedded  in  a  glow  of  crimson  hght ;  her  remains 
of  antiquity,  her  walls  and  towers,  the  crumbling,  but 
eloquent  shadows  of  the  past,  were  softened  into  such  in- 
crease of  beauty,  that  one  might  almost  fancy  the  seat  of 
ancient  empire  restored  to  what  it  had  been.  Aromid, 
below,  and  above  them,  were  vineyards,  with  their  twining 
leaves  and  blushing  fruit,  interspersed  with  all  that  luxu- 
riance of  foliage,  richness  of  scenery,  clearness  of  atmos- 
phere, and  gorgeousness  of  sky,  so  peculiar  to  Italy. 
Nature  never  loses  by  constant  and  ultimate  association  ; 
the  more  we  love  her,  the  more  she  repays  that  love — ^the 
more  we  acknowledge  her  power,  the  more  thrillingly  and 
dehciously  she  infuses  herself  into  our  very  being,  giving 
us  a  buoyancy  of  spirit  that,  however  restrained  and  hid- 
den, will  never  entirely  depart,  but  burst  afresh  into  lifo 


woman's  friendship  99 

and  joy  with  tlio  very  next  view,  and  conscioiJusness  of  that 
Divinity  from  whom  it  sprang. 

Books  and  ^vDlk,  the  pen  and  pencil,  were  the  usual 
employments  of  the  female  inmates  of  that  peaceful  spot  ; 
but,  this  evening,  their  conversation  had  turned  on  the 
strange  chances  of  Hfe  and  death  which  had  just  given  to 
Sir  Edmund  St.  Maur  that  barony  which,  when  Lady  Ida 
Villiers  married  him,  it  had  seemed  impossible  that  ho 
should  have  so  lived  so  long  as  to  obtain.  The  last  of  the 
title,  a  warm  friend  and  admirer  of  Sir  Edmund,  had  left 
him  sole  guardian  of  his  only  child,  a  daughter,  then  under 
the  care  of  relatives  in  England,  with  the  earnest  request 
that  if  they  ever  returned  to  live  in  their  native  land, 
Lady  Ida  would  herself  superintend  her  education,  and 
introduce  her  under  no  auspices  but  her  own — a  request 
unhesitatingly  granted  by  his  friend.  Their  conversation 
was  interrupted  by  visitors,  amongst  whom  was  a  lady 
lately  arrived  from  England,  who,  in  course  of  conversa- 
tion on  that  country,  chanced  to  remark  that  she  had 
known  little  of  London  topics  of  interest,  having  resided 
some  few  months  before  leaving  England  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Winchester,  with  an  invalid  friend. 

"  Winchester  I"  Lady  St.  Maur  repeated  with  interest ; 
and  after  a  moment's  hesitation  she  asked  if  Lady  Bland- 
ford  chanced  to  know  Woodlands  and  its  inmates — if  she 
had  ever  met  with  a  Miss  Leslie,  sometimes  stapng  with 
Mrs.  Uivers.  The  lady  locked  astonished  at  the  last 
question — forgetting  to  answer  the  first,  in  her  surprise 
that  such  a  person  as  report  had  pictured  Miss  Leshe, 
could  in  any  way  interest  Lady  St,  Maur — ^briefly  alluding 
to  the  circumstances  which,  as  we  already  know,  had 
transpired  to  the  discredit  of  Flora  Leslie,  adding,  that 
she  understood  an  elopement  had  concluded  the  affair — 
the  more  scandalous,  as  the  yomig  lady  had  not  two 
months  before  lost  her  father. 

Now,  it  so  happened,  that  Lady  St.  Maur,  equally  with 
her  visitor,  knew  nothing  of  the  existence  of  tivo  Miss 
Leslies,  bearing  the  same,  or  nearly  the  same.  Christian 
name.  In  Florence's  early  communications  with  hei 
friend,  she  had  often  mentioned  Mrs.  Rivers  and  her  beau- 
tiful estate  ;  but  from  the  total  want  of  sympathy  with,  ana 


100  woman's   friendship. 

entire  disapjrovLl  of  Flora's  character,  had  never  men- 
tioned her.  Therefore  that  Lady  Blandford  could  allude 
to  any  one  but  Florence  was  not  hkely,  more  especially  aa 
she  mentioned  her  father's  death,  which  Lady  St.  Maur 
had  seen  in  the  newspapers  about  that  time  ;  although, 
from  no  allusion  being  made  to  it  in  the  last  letter  she  had 
received  from  Florence,  she  had  hoped  it  was  not  true. 
This  last  letter,  we  need  scarcely  state,  was  the  false  one 
substituted  by  Flora,  uistead  of  that  which  had  caused 
Florence  so  much  pain  to  write.  Its  strange  and  frivolous 
style  had  annoyed  and  perplexed  La,dy  St.  Idaur,  whj, 
notwithstanding  her  many  new  ties  and  enjoyments,  and 
the  variois  claims  on  her  time  and  affection  from  friends 
of  her  o\\  n  rank  in  England,  yet  retained  an  affectionate 
interest  in  the  young  girl  who  had  so  loved  her.  She  had 
often  taxed  Emily  Melford,  during  the  last  year,  with 
never  alluding  to  Florence — askmg  questions  concerning 
her,  which  Emily  either  left  unanswered,  or  by  acknow- 
ledging that  she  ever  heard  from  her  now,  contrived  to 
leave  the  impression  that  Florence  had  ceased  to  care  for 
the  correspondence,  and  so  it  had  been  broken  off. 

Knowing  the  mdolent  and  capricious  character  of  her 
cousin.  Lady  St.  Maur  had,  however,  always  thought  her 
the  more  to  blame,  until  she  received  this  incomprehen- 
sible letter  ;  when  the  thought  would  enter  her  muid 
that  Florence  must  be  very  greatly  changed.  She  com- 
pared the  letter  with  the  last  she  had  had  from  her  nearly 
a  year  previous.  The  writing,  the  signature  were  so 
exactly  similar,  that  it  seemed  not  possible  it  could  have 
been  written  by  any  other  person — which  fancy  wild  as 
ehe  felt  it  was.  Lady  St.  Maur  had  entertained.  Her 
husband  had  glanced  over  it,  merely  remarking,  if  Miss 
Leslie  could  not  write  more  respectfully,  she  had  better 
not  write  at  all,  and  had  thought  no  more  about  it,  till  the 
subject  was  somewhat  painfully  recalled.  Lady  St.  Maur, 
however,  could  not  dismiss  it  so  easily.  About  a  month 
before  she  had  thus  heard  (as  she  supposed)  from  Flo- 
rence— she  herself  had  written  to  her  feehngly  and  affec- 
tionately, sjanpathizmg  with  her  on  her  father's  death — 
this  letter  she  sent  to  Emily  Melford,  requesting  her  to 
direct  it  properly,  and  forward  it.     Florence's  non-allusion 


woman's    friendship.  101 

to  it,  excited  the  belief  that  she  had  net  yet  received  it ; 
and  that  when  she  did,  even  if  its  condolence  were  not 
necessary,  yet  still  that  she  would  write  again,  and  more 
like  herself.  Months,  however,  passed,  and  she  received 
no  reply,  and  therefore  Lady  Blandford's  commin.ication 
but  too  painfully  recalled  the  supposition  that  Florence 
was  not  only  changed,  bat  was,  in  fact,  no  longer  worthy 
of  her  remembrance  or  regard.  Yet,  when  she  recalled 
the  beautiful  promise  which  her  youth  had  given,  how 
could  this  be  ?  What  circumstances,  what  temptations 
could  have  had  such  power  ?  And  such  distressed  per- 
plexity did  her  countenance  express,  that  whei  her  nus- 
band  joined  her  he  noticed  it,  and  tenderly  inquired  the 
reason.  The  expression  with  which  he  listened  startled 
her.  "  You  have  heard  something  before  to  this  effect, 
Edmund,"  she  exclaimed,  "  and  you  have  not  told  me, 
fearing  to  wound  me.  What  is  it?  I  would  much  rather 
know  the  truth." 

His  tale  was  soon  told.  While  at  Malta,  where  he  had 
been  several  weeks  on  some  political  duty,  he  became  in- 
timate with  several  of  the  officers,  aud  had  been  prevailed 
upon  one  day  to  join  them  at  dinner  in  their  mess-roorn. 
There  had  been  lately  a  new  arrival  of  troops  from  Eng- 
land, the  officers  of  which,  fresh  from  the  gayeties  of  a 
large  county  town — which  proved  to  be  Winchester — be- 
came rather  more  communicative  as  the  wine  circled 
briskly  round,  than  under  other  circumstances  they  might 
themselves  have  wished.  The  conversation  soon  became 
riotous,  and  loud  and  foremost  amongst  all  other  names, 
as  the  belle  and  the  coquette  of  the  season.  Lord  St. 
Maur  had  heard  the  name  of  a  Flora  or  Florence  Leslie. 
Startled  and  annoyed,  for  never  hearing  that  name,  save 
from  the  lips  of  his  wife,  it  seemed  to  have  imbibed  a 
portion  of  her  own  purity  and  excellence.  He  listened 
still  more  attentively :  he  heard  them  mention  Wood- 
lands, and  its  misanthropic  mistress,  Mrs.  Hivers,  and  felt 
convinced  it  must  be  the  same,  Florence's  last  letter  to 
his  wife  flaslhng  on  his  memory  as  still  stronger  con- 
firmation. He  heard  her  name  bandied  from  lip  to  Up, 
sometimes  contemptuously,  sometimes  admiringly,  but 
always    most    disreputably    ta    its    object.      One    young 

9* 


Iv02  woman's  friendship. 

man — Ensign  Camden — swore  to  her  constancy,  and 
challenged  any  one  who  dared  deny  that  he  was  her  pre- 
ferred lover,  oiiermg  to  bring  Avritten  proofs  in  the  last 
letter  he  had  received  from  her  belbre  he  had  quitted 
England  ;  and  drawing  it  from  his  pocket  as  he  spoke,  it 
was  seized  upon,  with  a  burst  of  uproarious  laughter,  and 
'n  mock  heroic  tones  read  aloud  for  the  benefit  of  the 
whole  company.  Lord  St.  Maur  had  been  near  enough 
to  notice  both  the  hand- writing  and  the  signature,  and 
had  unhesitatmgly  recognised  both.  Camden,  indignant  at 
tliis  publicity  of  what  he  vowed  was  a  treasure  too  pre- 
cious for  any  gaze  but  his  own,  had  become  more  and 
more  enraged,  drawing  his  sword  at  length  upon  all  who 
ventured  to  approach  him,  till  he  was  dragged  off  to  his 
quarters;  and  Lord  St..  Maur,  in  utter  disgust  at  the 
scene,  at  length  effected  a  retreat,  not,  however,  before  he 
heard  many  voices  declare,  that  love-letters  from  Miss 
Leslie  were  no  proof  of  preference,  as  every  unmarried, 
good-looking  officer  of  Wmchester  had,  at  one  time  or 
other,  received  thsm. 

Lord  St.  Maur  had  purposely  refrained  from  telhng 
this  to  his  wife,  waiting  till  she  might  hear  again  from 
Florence,  and  thus  clear  up  what  certainly  appeared  a 
mystery.  He  found  it  difficult  to  believe  that  any  person 
who  could  act  thus  could  ever  have  been  sufficiently 
worthy  as  to  attract,  and  indeed  rivet.  Lady  Ida's  notice. 
But  when  time  passed,  and  still  no  letter  came,  it  argued 
unfavorably,  and  Lady  Blandford's  information,  to  Lord 
St.  Maur's  mind,  so  removed  all  remaining  doubt,  that  he 
\^ntreated  his  wife  to  banish  Florence  fiom  her  recollection, 
as  wholly  unworthy  of  her  continued  regard.  But  this 
was  impossible.  Listead  of  convmcing  her  of  Florence's 
utter  m\worthines3,  Lady  St.  Maur's  previous  supposition 
roturned,  that  some  mysterious  agency  was  at  work,  and 
that  the  sjtrange  letter  she  had  received  was  not  from  the 
Florence  she  had  loved,  and  that  it  was  not  to  her  these 
disgraceful  rumors  alluded.  That  there  should  indeed 
exist  two  persons  of  exactly  the  same  name,  whose  hand- 
writing Avas  so  similar,  did  appear  unlikely,  but  yet  not  so 
ji^apossible  as  such  a  total  change  m  Florence.  She  did 
»^  *t   s])eak   much   on   the  subject,  because  she  saw  that 


woman's   friendship.  103 

neither  her  husband  nor  Lady  Helen  could  feel  with  her  , 
nor  was  it  likely,  as  they  had  never  known  Florence,  tha* 
they  should  ;  but  her  active  mind  could  not  rest  satisfied 
without  making  one  efibrt  to  clear  up  the  mystery.  She 
knew  it  was  useless  to  write  to  Emily  Melford,  whose  rep- 
resentations that  it  was  Florence's  fault  which  had  occa- 
Bioned  the  cessation  of  their  intercourse  now  involun- 
tarily returned  as  proofs  strong  in  confirmation  of  the 
reports  against  her.  She  therefore  wrote  to  Lady  Mary 
Villiers,  requesting  her  to  make  every  inquiry  concerning 
Florence  Leslie,  purposely  avoiding  all  allusion  to  these 
reports.  Anxiously  she  waited  the  reply;  but  when  it 
.came,  it  told  nothing  she  wished  to  hear.  Lady  Mary, 
through  her  father's  confidential  steward,  had  made  every 
inquiry  concerning  the  Leslies  in  very  many  quarters  of 
London  without  any  success.  The  house  which  they  had 
formerly  occupied  in  Bernard-street  was  in  the  hands  of 
strangers — the  very  landlord  changed  ;  her  brother  himself 
had  undertaken  the  inquiries  at  Winchester,  but  there  the 
result  had  been  more  confused  and  unsatisfactory  still ;  so 
much  so,  indeed,  that  she  hardly  liked  to  write  it,  for  how 
even  to  make  it  intelligible  in  a  brief  detail  she  scarcely 
knew. 

It  appeared  that  a  Miss  Leslie,  whose  Christian  name 
was  Florence,  or  Flora,  rumor  could  not  agree  wliich, 
was  constantly  residing  with  Mrs.  Rivers  at  Woodlands ; 
some  said  she  was  an  orphan,  others  that  her  parents  were 
both  living  in  London,  that  she  had  made  herself  noto- 
rious at  Winchester  by  the  grossest  impropriety  of  con- 
duct, causing  at  length  Mrs.  Rivers  to  restrain  her  to 
Woodlands,  but  while  there  she  still  continued  her  in- 
trigues So  far  all  the  rumors  agreed,  but  after  that  they 
differed,  some  declaring  an  elopement  had  actually  taken 
place,  and  the  young  lady  was  united  to  a  gallant  Major 
Hardwicke,  and  resided  with  him  on  the  Continent ;  others, 
allowing  the  truth  of  the  elopement,  averred  that  Mrs. 
Rivers'  steward  had  pursued  and  overtaken  the  fugitives 
before  the  completion  of  the  ceremony,  and  conveyed  Miss 
Leslie  back  to  Woodlands,  whence  she  was  speedily  sent 
under  strict  ward  to  her  widowed  mother. 

The  only  positive  facts  then  were  these,  that  Mrs.  Rivera 


104  woman's  friendship. 

had  quitted  Woodlands,  which  was  now  occupied  by  slran 
gers,  and  that  Miss  Leslie  had  never  appeared  at  "VYmehes 
tor  ajjain. 

"  What  they  mean,  or  to  whom  they  relate,  I  leave  you 
to  determine,  my  dear  Ida,"  \ATote  Lady  Mary  ui  conclu- 
sion, "but  if  to  the  Florence  Leslie  of  your  creation,  wo 
must  never  speak  of  reading  character  again.  I  should 
fear,  as  you  have  not  heard  from  her  so  long,  it  is  shame, 
not  pride,  which  keeps  her  silent.  Fortunately,  you  have 
too  many  nearer  and  dearer  ties  for  this  to  affect  you  much, 
but  it  is  very  disagreeable  ;  it  lowers  our  opinion  of  human 
nature,  and  creates  a  doubt  even  of  the  fairest  promise  ; 
and  worse  still,  it  gives  such  a  triumph  to  worldly,  miro- 
mantic  people." 

So  wrote  Lady  Mary,  and  confused  and  contradictory  as 
the  reports  still  were,  yet  there  was  no  mention,  no  hint  as 
to  there  being  two  Miss  Leshes.  Ida  had  not  asked  the 
question,  imaginmg  Lady  Mary's  reply  would  make  it  evi- 
dent. Our  readers  know  enough  of  the  truth  to  remove  at 
a  glance  all  that  was  false  ;  but,  unfortmiately.  Lord  St. 
Maur's  family  could  not  do  so,  therefore  decided  as  pre- 
sumptive evidence  warjanted. 

The  subject  was  never  resumed  ;  Florence  Leslie's  name 
never  mentioned.  Lady  St.  Maur  could  not  defend  and  be- 
lieve as  her  ovn\  heart  still  prompted,  for  she  had  no  con- 
trary proof  to  bring  forward.  "  Oh  I  that  Florence  would 
but  write  again,"  she  felt  continually,  "  and  thus  disprove 
the  scandal,  or  enable  her  to  ask  its  explanation."  But 
Florence  did  not  write,  neither  then,  nor  durmg  the  whole 
period  of  Lord  St.  Maur's  residence  abroad.  What  effect 
all  this  had  on  Lady  St.  Maur,  and  its  consequences  ta  Flo- 
rence, we  shall  discover  in  a  future  page. 


CHAPTER  XVIl, 

THE    CLOUD    BURSTS. 


The  blov/,  which  Mrs.  Leslie  had  long  expected,  at 
length  fell.  The  suit  wa.s  decided  against  them  ;  and  so 
heavily  had  the  attendant  expenses  accumulated,  that  all 


WOMAN    S     FRIENDSHIP.  105 

thfe  little  fortune  of  Walter  and  Florence  was  sacrificed  to 
defray  them  ;  including  also  the  £100  which  Mrs.  Rivers 
had  bestowed,  and  which  Florence  secretly  reserved,  in 
case  of  such  emergency. 

Painful  was  the  emotion  of  Mrs.  Leslie,  when  on  closely 
questioning  her  son  as  to  the  debts  accumulated  and 
means  of  payment,  the  whole  truth  was  discovered. 

"  My  children  !  my  beloved  children  !  Why  have  you 
done  this?"  was  all  that,  for  the  first  moment,  she  could 
exclaim.  "  Florence  I  Walter  I  both  so  little  fitted  to 
struggle  with  penury  and  labor.  Indeed,  indeed,  it  must 
not  be  !" 

"  Indeed,  it  must  be,  mother ;"  and  Florence,  kneeling 
by  her  mother's  couch,  covered  her  hand  with  kisses, 
while  Walter  continued — 

"  Unfitted  for  labor  !  Mother,  do  not  wrong  us  thus. 
We  shall  do  well  enough,  for  we  have  still  affection  ;  nor 
shall  we  be  grieved  by  seeing  you  in  want  of  those  little 
luxuries  which,  purchased  by  our  labor,  I  know  you 
would  refuse.  For  myself,  happily,  I  have  no  pursuit  to 
seek  ;  every  year  increases  my  salary — and  there  may 
come  a  day,  dearest  mother,  when  I  may  give  you  a  more 
luxurious  home ;  and  Florence,  our  own  Florence,  need 
not  work." 

"Walter  I"  murmured  his  mother,  grasping  his  hand  as 
he  bent  over  her.  "  Do  not  speak  of  another  home  ;  I  need 
no  other,  with  my  children  around  me.  But  Florence,  my 
sweet  Florence,  'iniist  she  leave  me  ?  Is  there  no  priva- 
tion we  may  welcome,  no  comfort  we  may  resign,  to  save 
her  this?" 

"  We  shall  not  be  far  severed,  dearest  mother,"  an- 
swered Florence,  making  a  strong  effort  to  subdue  the 
choking  sob.  "A  trifling  pittance  will  content  me  ;  nnd 
if  one  of  us  must  leave  you — ^better,  far  better,  I  than 
Minie." 

"  And  why,  Florie  dear  ?  I  do  not  see  that  at  all.  Nay> 
I  am  much  better  fitted  to  work  amongst  strangers  than 
you  are  ;  for  I  do  not  feel  little  things  half  so  much.  So 
you  take  the  portion  you  have  so  generously  laid  aside  f3r 
me,  and  I  will  take  your  place,  and  go  teach."  And 
Minie  Leslie,  springing  into  the  midst  of  the  circle,  with 


106  woman's  friendship. 

her  bright,  beautiful  face,  and  silvery  laugh,  seemed  indeed 
a  very  spirit  of  joy,  sent  to  breathe  hope  and  comfort  in 
the  midst  of  gloom. 

"  You  leave  the  shelter,  the  safety  of  home,  and  my 
mother's  fostering  care,  to  struggle  with  the  world  I"  ex- 
claimed Florence.  "  No  ;  had  we  nothing  to  depend  on 
but  my  own  exertions,  this  should  not  be." 

*'  Why,  Florence,  do  you  think  I  cannot  gain  my  own 
living,  as  well  as  yourself?  Mamma,  did  you  ever  hear 
her  so  conceited  before  ?" 

"  Alas  I  my  child ;  how  few  years  more  of  experience, 
have  awakened  her  to  many,  many  thoughts  of  danger 
and  temptation,  of  which  your  guileless  innocence  cannot 
know." 

"  Danger  ?  temptation  ?  dearest  mother,  why  should 
they  assail  me  more  than  Florence  ?  AVhy  should  so 
much  evil  occur  to  me  and  none  to  her  ?  Do  not  imagine 
that  I  wish  to  leave  home — ^but  if  one  of  us  97iust  go,  I 
should  like  to  know  what  your  wisdom.  Master  Walter, 
can  bring  forward  agamst  my  plan  ;  when  you,  of  all 
persons,  ought  to  know  that  when  Florence  weeps  at  un 
kindness  or  neglect,  I  laugh,  and  so  am  likely  to  be  very 
happy  when  she  would  be  very  miserable.  Come,  sir, 
speak;  what  can  you  brmg  forward  in  objection?"  she 
continued  laying  both  hands  caressingly  on  his  arm,  and 
looking  up  in  his  face  so  archly,  that  she  seemed  more 
than  usually  lovely. 

Inexpressibly  affected,  Walter  led  her  forward  to  a 
mirror  hanging  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  room  and  an- 
swered— 

**  Minie  I  you  ask  me  what  I  can  bring  forward  ;  look 
at  your  own  sweet  face,  my  darling  sister,  and  you  have 
my  answer.  You  do  not  know  its  power ;  you  have  no 
wish,  no  temptation,  to  use  that  precious  gift,  save  to  add 
to  the  happiness  of  home.  There  have  been  none  to  tell 
you  you  are  beautiful,  save  the  lips  of  that  faithful  love, 
which  while  it  speaks  of  beauty,  bids  you  know  its  only  value. 
But,  thrown  amidst  heartless  strangers,  brought  forward  by 
your  own  exceeding  loveliness,  with  none  to  guard  and 
WaiTi — doubly   endangered   by  that  very  ignorance  of  aU 


woman's   friendship.  107 

worldly  ways,  which  we  so  dearly  love — Mini^  '  my  pre* 
cious  Minie  I  I  would  rather  earn  my  bread,  a  slave  behind 
a  counter,  than  you  should  leave  my  mother  I"  And  over- 
come by  strong  emotion,  Walter  Leslie  clasped  his  young 
sister  closer  to  him,  while  his  voice  shook,  and  his  whole 
frame  trembled  ;  Minie's  joyous  laugh  was  checked,  and  for 
several  minutes  she  clung  to  him  in  tearful  silence. 

'*  But  am  I  then  to  see  you  and  Florence  labor  in  sorrow 
and  care,  day  after  day,  and  I  am  to  rest  in  idleness,  simply 
because  they  say  that  I  am  beautiful  ?  Oh,  Walter  I  do 
not  make  me  such  a  selfish  wretch,"  she  said  at  length,  as 
she  raised  her  head  from  his  bosom,  and  flung  back  impetu- 
ously her  beautiful  hair  ;  '*  Am  I  sent  into  this  world  to  do 
nothing,  where  all  our  exertions  are  needed,  when  God  has 
given  me  a  temper  enabled  to  bear  all  things,  and  health 
sufficient  for  any  labor  ?  And  all  this  to  be  a  useless 
burden  on  you  both.  Why  am  I  not  like  others  ?  Why 
too  beautiful  for  use  ?" 

"To  be  to  us  all  we  need — to  give  my  mother  joy  v/hen 
ghe  would  grieve,"  answered  Florence,  passionately.  "  Do 
not  say  those  precious  gifts  are  lent  but  to  make  you  a 
useless  burden.  Oh,  Minie  !  you  do  not  know  what  you  are 
to  us — how  fondly  we  shall  turn  to  the  home  which  you  so 
bless — how  much  more  sad,  more  desolate,  would  be  our 
mother's  hearth,  if  you  were  absent." 

"  Florence,  my  child  I  my  blessed  child  I  do  not  speak 
thus,"  entreated  Mrs.  Leslie,  an  expression  of  agony  con- 
tracting her  features,  which  her  children  could  not  define  ; 
"  both  so  inexpressibly  dear,  why  should  the  absence  of  one 
be  felt  more  than  that  of  the  other  ?  Why,  why  should 
I  consent  to  send  you  from  me,  and  retain  Minie  by 
me  ?  Why  expose  you  to  danger,  trial,  and  sufTering, 
from  which  I  would  selfishly  shelter  her  ?  Florence  I 
Walter  !  You  know  not,  you  cannot  know,  the  agony  of 
this  decision." 

"  And,  therefore,  we  will  not  let  you  decide,  my  beloved 
mother,"  replied  Walter  ;  "leave  it  to  your  children — trust 
them  in  this  emergency.  While  such  love  exists  betweeu 
us,  wherever  we  are,  whatever  called  upon  to  do,  our  paths 
can  never  be  wholly  sad.     Trust  us,  oh  !  trust  us,  mother, 


108  woman's    Fr.IENDSIIIP. 

and  while  we  may  see  the  smile  on  your  deai  lips — ihti 
peace  of  God  on  your  fond  heart — we  must,  we  shall,  be 
blessed." 

For  a  few  minutes  Mrs.  Leslie's  only  reply  was  to  weep 
on  his  bosom  ;  but  soon  the  feelinrs  of  each  were  calmed 
for  the  sake  of  the  other,  and  the  e  vening  passed  cheerfully. 
Mmic,  whose  tears  were  ever  transient  like  the  night-dews 
on  +he  flowers,  was  indeed  the  first  to  smile  herself  and  bring 
the  smile  to  others. 

Little  did  her  children  guess  the  real  cause  ci  the  suffer- 
ing which  ths  fact  that  either  Florence  or  Minie  must  leave 
her,  occasioned  Mrs.  Leslie.  It  was  not  simply  a  mother's 
feeling.  She  was  the  sole  retainer  of  a  weighty  truth, 
wixich  in  such  a  moment  seemed  to  whelm  her  with  the 
increased  necessity  for  concealment. 

"  Father  of  Mercy  I  save  me  from  the  betrayal  of  the 
truth  to  my  poor  child,"  she  prayed,  in  the  silence  and 
sohtude  of  her  ovm.  chamber.  "  Florence !  my  poor  Flo- 
rence I  guard  her  from  all  kiioivledge  of  the  truth,  till  its 
concealment  threaten  increase  of  suffering,  hy  unconscious 
sin.  Grant  it,  oh  !  grant  it,  even  when  I  am  gone,  and 
may  offer  it  no  more.  And  now — now  guide  this  feeble 
heart  aright,  for  it  dares  not  listen  to  itself.  Would  I  keep 
Minie  nearer  to  me  than  Florence  ?  Will  the  voice  of 
Nature  so  assert  her  influence  now,  as  to  stifle  the  voice  of 
JLove  ?  Oh  !  let  not  this  be.  Save  me  from  all  decision 
save  that  which  will  be  the  best  for  both  I"  And  calmed 
by  that  earnest  prayer  and  trusting  faith,  the  morrow  found 
Mrs.  Leslie  once  again  herself. 

Florence  persevered  in  her  resolution  to  seek  employ- 
ment, as  resident  governess  in  some  respectable  family  ;  and 
Minie,  as  firmly  resolved  not  to  be  idle,  declared  that  her 
taste  for  fancy  work  should  now  become  useful  as  well  as 
an  amusement.  She  would  get  their  dear  old  landlady  to 
dispose  of  the  articles  for  her,  and  procure  her  all  the  ma- 
terials ;  so  Walter  need  not  be  alarmed.  Though  what 
possible  harm  could  befall  her,  if  she  sought  such  employ- 
ment in  propria  persona,  she  could  not  imagine. 

"  Are  there  no  other  pretty  people  in  the  world,  my 
dear  fidgetty  brother,  that  you  fear  such  unutterable  things 
for  me  ?    Why,  if  you  were  the  Grand  Seignior  himself,  and 


woman's  friendship.  109 

I  the  dueen  of  his  harem,  you  could  not  guard  me  more 
jealously,"  she  laughingly  said ;  and  had  her  nature  been 
less  childlike,  Walter  would  have  found  some  difficulty  to 
reply  satisfactorily,  without  exciting  an  undue  idea  of  her 
own  importance  ;  but  such  a  thought  never  entered  her 
mind,  ^he  knew  she  was  lovely,  but  it  was  to  heir  rather 
a  sotxce  of  regret  than  rejoicing,  as  it  rendered  her  less 
useful  than  Florence,  for  whom  her  affection  was  so  true, 
go  reverential,  that  the  idea  of  her  going  among  strangers, 
was  fraught  with  as  much  suffering  to  her  as  to  Florence 
herself. 

*'  Oh,  why  is  not  Lady  St.  Maur  here  now?"  she  one 
day  said,  as  she  clung,  weeping,  to  her  sister.  "  Why  do 
you  not  write  to  her,  Florence  ?  Tell  her  what  you  are 
compelled  to  do  :  I  am  sure  she  would  assist  you." 

"  How  !  dearest  Minie  ?  What  could  she  do  for  me  in 
Rome,  and  I  in  London  ?" 

"  Oh,  give  you  letters  of  recommendation  to  some  of  her 
friends  here,  who  would  soon  find  you  employment.  I  wish 
you  would  let  me  write  for  you  ;  I  have  so  often  thought 
of  doing  so." 

"  Minie,  if  you  love  me,  do  not  think  of  it,"  replied  Flo- 
rence, with  an  expression  of  suffering  which  could  not 
escape  her  sister's  notice  ;  "I  could  not  write  to  Lady  St. 
Maur  now,  we  are  too  widely  severed." 

*  Nay,  Florence,  I  am  sure  you  are  not  alluding  only 
to  distance.  You  think  Lady  Ida  changed  ;  and  if  you 
think  so,  I  am  sure  you  do  not  love  her  as  much  as  I  do 
I  am  sure  the  more  you  needed  friendship,  the  more  she 
would  rejoice  in  bestowing  it.  You  will  find  that  I  am  a 
much  truer  prophetess  than  you  are." 

"  Because  you  have  not  trusted,  hoped,  anticipated,  and 
found  all  vain,"  mentally  responded  Florence,  as  her  happy 
sister  bounded  away  ;  "  I  could  write  for  Walter,  I  coidd 
hope  for  him,  cut  I  cannot  for  myself." 

10 


HO  woman's  friendship 


CHAPTER  XVm. 

A   SOLID    ENGLISH   EDUCATION. — MINIE. — OLD   FRIENDS. — EMmV 
MELFORd's    PROMISE. 

TiiE  first  applications  of  Florence  for  a  situation  were 
most  dispiritingly  unsuccessful.  The  school  for  gover- 
nesses was  overstocked  by  young  women,  who,  educated 
far  above  their  rank,  and  the  expectations  of  their  parents, 
(mostly  petty  farmers,  or  flourishing  shopkeepers,)  loaded 
with  showy  accomplishments,  endowed  with  a  sufficient 
quantum  of  assurance  to  display  themselves  to  the  best  ad- 
vantage, and  sick  of  home  by  its  contrast  with  their  over- 
refined  ideas  of  fashion  and  sentiment,  offer  themselves  at 
the  lowest  possible  terms,  and  are  accepted,  as  combining 
all  that  is  necessary  to  be  acquired  in  the  small  compass  of 
one  brain. 

Florence  could  not  compete  with  these,  and  in  conse- 
quence was  again  and  again  rejected,  as  incapacitated,  by 
her  own  avowal,  for  the  education  of  fashionable  young 
ladies.  One  lady  could  not  understand  what  she  meant 
by  a  solid  English  education  ;  there  was  surely  no  occa- 
sion for  such  instruction  in  England  ;  it  might  be  all 
very  w^ell  for  foreigners,  but  certainly  was  unnecessary 
for  English  girls.  Her  daughters  must  be  accomplished, 
understand  all  the  living  languages,  sing,  paint,  em- 
broider— that  was  all  she  required  ;  she  knew  many  who 
wfuld  undertake  to  do  it  all.  Another  looked  perfectly 
mystified  as  to  instruction  being  needed  in  religion  and 
morals.  What  possible  occasion  could  there  be  for  things 
which  came  so  completely  by  instinct?  She  was  afraid 
Miss  Leslie  stood  a  very  poor  chance  of  employment,  if 
she  could  only  profess  things  which  m  fact  everybody 
knew,  without  taking  the  trouble  to  acquire  them.  A 
third  turned  up  her  hands  and  eyes  in  sentimental  aston- 
ishment, that  any  person  could  attempt  to  teach  who 
did  not  understand  German — had  only  read  Schiller  in 
English  and  knew  nothing  of  Kotzebue  or  Goethe.  A 
fourth    could    not   possibly  engage  her,   because    she  was 


woman's    FE-IENDSHII  111 

ignorant  of  Latin  and  Greek,  which  she  declared  with  the 
voice  and  look  of  a  Roman  dictator  to  be  indispensable 
for  the  proper  training  of  girls.  (Questions  of  phrenology, 
animal  magnetism,  chemistry,  and  all  the  ologies  were 
asked  by  this  learned  lady,  and  poor  Florence  was  finally 
dismissed  with  a  look  of  most  ineffable  contempt.  A 
fifth  wished  to  know  if  she  read  novels,  Austin,  Edge  worth, 
and  even  Scott  being  enmnerated  in  that  sweeping  name, 
and  Miss  Leslie  was  dismissed  with  a  frown  the  moment 
she  acknowledged  that  she  did  ;  the  lady  ha^-ing  resolved 
that  no  person  likely  to  breathe  the  woids,  sentiment  or 
romance,  should  have  the  honor  of  instructing  her 
daughters,  who,  already  initiated  in  all  the  mysteries  oi 
duplicity,  forswearing  sentiment  in  their  mother's  pres- 
ence, to  indulge  in  the  most  dangerous  kind  when  alone, 
looked  as  if  poor  Florence's  high  and  refined  sense  of 
such  emotions  could  do  them  very  little  injury.  There 
were  some  mothers,  also,  whose  sole  objection  was  that 
she  had  never  been  out  before  :  they  could  engage  no 
young  person  for  whom  no  one  except  her  own  family 
could  be  found  to  speak.  Alas  !  these  trials  were  hard  to 
bear,  perhaps  yet  harder  for  one  like  Florence,  whose 
pure  and  beautiful  ideas  of  human  nature,  and  the  power 
of  virtue  and  benevolence  even  in  this  world,  were  so 
continually  and  harshly  disappointed.  She  had  been  more 
than  once  advised  to  write  to  Lady  Melford,  or  to  one  of 
her  daughters,  as  perhaps  in  their  circle  she  might  be  more 
successful ;  but  they  had  for  the  last  two  years  so  com- 
pletely neglected  her,  that  she  shrunk  in  sufiering  from  any 
such  appeal. 

Just  about  this  time,  when  Florence  was  compelled  to 
relax  her  exertions,  from  not  knowing  where  next  to 
apply,  an  offer  was  made  to  Mrs.  Leslie  which  might 
materially  have  altered  the  fortunes  of  both  sisters 
Minie's  exquisite  voice  and  extraordinary  beauty,  had  at 
tracted  the  attention  of  a  family  intimate  with  one  of  Mrs. 
LesUe's  few  confidential  friends.  They  were  foreigners, 
one  of  whom  was  associated  with  the  Italian  Opera,  in 
rather  an  influential  position.  He  offered  to  take  Minic 
into  his  own  family,  then  about  to  return  to  Italy,  give 
her  the  best  instruction,  and  so  bring  her  forward,  that 


112  woman's  friendship. 

on  her  returning  to  England,  her  fortune  would  be  made 
Mrs.  Leslie  listened,  and  questioned  with  apparent  calm- 
ness, but  with  a  wrung  heart.  How  did  they  intend  hei 
child  to  take  advantage  of  this  undoubtedly  generous 
proposal — as  a  private  professor,  simply  to  teach  ?  The 
reply  was  a  decided  negative  ;  there  surely  could  be  no 
hesitation  in  her  accepting  an  engagement  as  lyrima  donna. 
when  there  was  not  the  smallest  doubt  of  her  ultimate 
success — she  was  so  graceful,  so  gifted,  a  very  little  train- 
ing would  be  sufficient  to  make  her  first-rate  as  an 
actress,  as  a  singer.  They  argued  well,  but  Mrs.  Leslie 
was  an  English  mother — heart  and  soul  an  EngUsh- 
woman.  She  had  not  always  been  in  poverty,  and  she 
carried  with  her  to  her  present  station  all  the  high  feelings 
of  birth  and  education,  which  no  privation,  no  penury 
could  remove.  She  shrunk  from  bringing  forward  her 
gentle,  modest  Minie,  in  a  situation  of  such  equivocal 
tendency.  Yet,  did  she  right  to  refuse  it  ?  The  struggle 
was  a  terrible  one,  and  perhaps  the  mother  could  never 
have  decided,  had  not  Florence  one  day,  alarmed  at 
the  sufTermg  imprmted  on  her  countenance,  caressingly 
implored  to  know  the  cause,  when  Mrs.  Leshe  told  her 
all.  "Oh,  do  not  hesitate,  dearest  mother,"  was  the  in- 
stant reply ;  "do  not  think  of  it  one  moment.  It  is 
neither  shame  nor  disgrace  to  those  destined  for  the  stage 
from  their  childhood,  and  so  armed  against  its  dangers. 
As  long  as  they  are  respectable,  their  profession  must  be 
so  too ;  but  it  is  not  for  those  who  have  been  thus 
educated  to  feel  and  think  like  us.  Who  could  be  with 
our  Minie  in  such  seasons,  to  prevent  all  associations  with 
those  of  doubtful  reputation,  too  often  found  in  the  opera 
role  ?  And  to  .do  this  she  must  go  from  us  to  a  land  of 
Btrangers — ^be  exposed  to  neglect,  perhaps  severity,  or,  if 
treated  with  kindness,  exciting  such  admiration,  that  how 
might  we  hope  that  she  would  return  to  us  the  same 
larling  child  she  leaves  us  ?  No,  no,  dearest  mother,  do 
tot  tliink  of  it." 

"  I  would  not,  could  not,  my  beloved  girl,  save  for  one 
weighty  cause — I  refuse  an  offer  of  independence  for  her, 
And  in  so  doing  devolve  dependence,  labor,  suffering 
upon  you.     Florence,  how  can  I  do  this  1 


woman's  friendship.  113 

*'  Easily,  my  own  mother,  for  believe  me,  the  most 
fatiguing  toil  were  comparative  happiness  to  this  trial. 
Do  not  think  of  her, — only  of  my  father ;  what  angnish 
even  the  very  idea  of  such  a  position  for  his  Minie  would 
have  inflicted  upon  him.  And  of  Minie  herself,  oh,  she 
could  never  bear  the  sufTerhig  of  such  a  separation." 

"  Do  you  indeed  think  so  ?"  And  the  sudden  irradiation 
of  Mrs.  Leslie's  every  feature,  showed  how  eagerly  she 
grasped  at  this  suggestion.  "  If  I  could  but  think  so,  that 
she  would  herself  refuse  this  offer — that  she  would  not 
accuse  me  of  selfishly  sacrificing  her  real  interests,  for  my, 
■oerhaps,  unfounded  prejudice  and  dread — " 

"Hear  her  own  opinion,  then,  dearest  mother  ;  you  will 
fmd  it  the  same  as  mine :"  and  Florence  bounded  away  to 
3all  her  sister. 

She  was  right.  With  a  passionate  burst  of  tears,  Minie 
folded  her  arms  round  her  mother's  neck,  and  conjured 
her  not  to  send  her  so  completely  away — not  to  compel 
her  to  embrace  such  a  profession  :  she  would  willingly 
teach,  work,  labor,  any  thing  her  mother  or  sister  might 
dictate ;  but  she  was  sure  her  voice  would  fail  her  if  so 
tried.  It  was  enough  :  the  refusal  was  accordingly  sent, 
gratefully,  but  decisively.  Meanwhile  Florence,  feehng 
more  than  ever  the  absolute  necessity  for  exertion,  had 
just  resolved  on  writing  to  Lady  Melford,  when  she  heard 
of  that  family's  arrival  in  town.  Painful  as  the  effort 
would  be,  she  thought  personal  apphcation  more  likely  to 
be  successful  than  epistolary.  But  Walter  advised  her 
writing  to  Lady  Edgemere  in  preference.  Eagerly  Flo- 
rence caught  at  the  idea ;  she  wrote,  and  Walter  himself 
took  the  letter.  Unhappily,  he  only  learned  that  the 
family  were  all  on  the  continent,  and  would  be  there  some 
time.  It  was  a  bitter  disappointment,  for  Hope,  as  if  the 
more  elastic  from  being  long  kept  bound,  had  sprung  up 
beneath  Walter's  sanguine  expectations,  and  it  was  hard 
to  chain  her  wings  again.  To  Lady  Melford,  then,  she 
resolved  on  going,  but  she  could  not  talk  about  it ;  and 
so,  unknowTi  to  her  mother,  and  even  to  Walter,  one  fine 
spring  morning  she  set  forth.  The  parks,  the  streets  of 
the  aristocratic  West,  looked  gay  and  joyous  in  the  sim- 
shuie;  every  face  seemed  clothed  with  smiles  to  her; 
10* 


114  WOMAN    S   FRIENDSHIP. 

perchance  tliey  were  not,  but  the  sorrowing  and  careworn 
leel  so  pamfully  alone.  London  is  even  solitude  to  hun 
drcds  of  its  weary  wanderers.  Florence  walked  on  me- 
chanically, conscious  only  of  that  stagnating  depression, 
80  difficult  to  bear,  and  still  more  to  overcome.  She  felt 
her  cheek  flushed  and  pale  alternately,  as  she  stood  ou 
the  steps  of  Lord  Melford's  stately  mansion,  and  her 
heart  so  throbbed,  that  at  first  she  had  no  power  to  hft  th 
knocker. 

"  Florence  Leslie  !  well,  this  is  really  an  unexpected 
pleasure  :  how  good  of  you  to  make  such  an  exertion," 
was  the  greeting  she  received  from  Emily  Melford,  who 
rose  from  her  languid  position  with  some  degree  of  em- 
2)resseme/it  and  extended  her  hand.  Lady  Melford  and 
Georgiana  (still  Miss  Melford)  met  her  the  same.  To  a 
casual  observer,  nothing  could  have  been  kinder  than 
their  reception ;  but  oh !  how  cold,  how  heartless  the 
mere  kindness  of  the  lip,  not  of  the  soul,  did  it  feel  to 
Florence,  who  so  trembled  with  suppressed  emotion,  that 
a  seat  was  never  more  welcome  !  The  very  sight  of  their 
well-remembered  faces,  the  tones  of  their  voices,  brought 
back  the  full  tide  of  memory ;  and  it  seemed  as  if  many 
more  than  barely  four  years  had  rolled  over  her  head 
since  they  had  parted.  Her  appearance  had  no  such 
effect  on  her  former  friends ;  they  had  hved,  rather,  per- 
haps, existed,  too  long  in  the  world,  where  fashion  and 
frivolity  are  the  presiding  deities.  Nothing  had  occurred 
to  ruffle  the  current  of  their  lives,  so  that  years  rolled  by, 
unnoticed  and  unfelt.  There  was  no  reference  to  their  for 
mer  acquaintance — no  allusion  to  her  personal  interests, 
except  an  inquiry  after  the  family — whether  Mrs.  Leslie's 
health  were  improved — whether  Mr.  Leslie  liked  London 
better  than  the  country,  etc. 

"  I  have  lost  my  dear  father,"  faltered  Florence,  vainly 
strugghng  to  reply  without  emotion. 

"  I  thought  you  knew  this,  Emily,  and  might  have 
spared  Miss  Leslie  the  question,"  observed  Lady  Melford, 
as  reproachfully  as  her  quiet  temper  would  perrrit. 

"  Oh,  by  the  way,  mamma,  now  you  mention  it,  I  do 
romembsr  hearing,  or  readmg  something  of  it ;  and,  in- 
deed, I  meant  to  have  written  to  you,  Florence ;  but  it 


v/oman's   friendship.  115 

was  just  at  the  time  Sophia  married,  and  i  really  had  so 
much  to  think  about  for  her,  that  time  shppel  away,  till  it 
was  too  late  to  A^Tite.  I  knew  you  were  always  good- 
natured,  and  trusted  you  would  forgive  the  apparent 
neglect.  I  never  write  to  any  one  it  is  such  a  dreadful 
exertion." 

"  Exertion  I"  thought  Florence,  as  she  glanced  round 
the  luxuriously  furnished  apartment.  "  Is  it  possible,  with 
ever)'  want  supphed,  that  the  idea  of  exertion  can  be  the 
excuse  for  not  writing  to  a  friend  ?  Your  sister  Soj^hia  is 
married,  then,"  she  added  aloud. 

"  Yes,  nearly  a  year  and  a-half  ago,  to  Lord  Maynard. 
Did  you  not  see  it  in  the  papers  ?  She  is  very  happy,  very 
rich,  her  lord  very  devoue,  and  so  on.  For  my  part,  the 
trouble  of  trymg  on  the  marriage  trousseau,  the  excite- 
ment, the  visits,  would  terrify  me  out  of  all  idea  of  matri- 
mony. I  am  grown  dreadfiilly  lazy  ;  even  parties  are  too 
much  trouble." 

"  Perhaps  you  have  not  very  good  health,"  innocently 
remarked  Florence. 

"  Why,  I  am  never  particularly  well,  and  have  tried  all 
the  doctors  in  and  out  of  London.;  but  they  did  me  no 
permanent  good,  never  finding  out  what  is  the  mattei 
with  me.  I  feel  no  pain,  certainly — nothing,  whatever,  to 
complain  ;  but  a  ye  ne  sais  quoi  incapacitatmg  me  from  aU 
exertion." 

The  young  lady  who  said  this,  m  the  most  gracefully 
languid  manner  possible,  looked  ui  blooming  health,  almost 
embonpoint,  presenting  a  strange  contrast  to  the  pale,  pensive 
countenance  of  her  visitor,  whose  actual  hvelihood  depended 
on  "  exertion." 

"  Are  you  as  fond  of  reading  as  you  used  to  be  ?"  in- 
quired Lady  Melford  ;  and  Florence  answered,  with  more 
animation  than  she  had  yet  spoken,  in  the  affirmative. 
The  Viscountess  mentioned  several  of  the  fashionable  works 
of  the  day.  Florence  blushingly  avowed  that  her  reading 
had  lately  been  more  amongst  the  older  authors,  and  that 
it  was  only  the  last  year  or  two  she  had  become  aware  of 
their  beauties. 

"  You  must  have  plenty  of  leisure,  Florence  :  what  a 
happy  girl  you  must  be  I     I  can  find  time  for  nothmg," 


116  woman's  friendship. 

was  Emily's  rejoinder.  "  As  to  reading  any  thing  but  the 
lightest  novel,  with  the  round  of  visiting  in  this  house,  it  i? 
impossible." 

Florence  vauily  endeavored  to  explain  this,  so  as  to 
satisfy  her  own  mind  ;  but  the  chit-chat  in  which  they  had 
engaged  her,  rendered  the  task  at  that  moment  impossible. 
How  was  she  to  introduce  the  real  motive  of  her  visit,  was 
another  mental  question,  which  she  found  some  difficulty 
in  replying.  At  last  Lady  Melford  asked  how  she  had 
corjie — was  she  living  near  ?  Her  answer  occa,sioned 
Emily's  extreme  astonishment.  "  Walked  all  the  way  from 
Camberwell  I  what  strength  you  must  have  I  It  really  was 
good  of  you  to  come." 

Then  was  the  moment,  and  Florence,  though  her  emotion 
almost  choked  her,  seized  it.  Modestly,  though  with 
unconscious  dignity,  she  removed  Emily  Melford's  impres- 
sion, that  her  visit  was  merely  to  renew  their  acquaintance, 
and  said  that  the  unfortmiate  termination  of  a  lawsuit  in 
the  family  compelled  her  to  seek  emplojinent,  and  that 
remembering  Lady  Melford's  former  kindness,  she  had 
ventured  to  call,  and  solicit  her,  or  her  daughter's  recom- 
mendation, should  they  know  of  any  family  requiring  aij 
English  governess.  Lady  Melford  expressed  herself  truly 
sorry,  and  that  she  feared  she  really  had  no  power  to  assise 
her  ;  yet,  if  she  should  hear  of  a  vacant  situation,  she 
would  with  pleasure  speak  of  Florence.  Miss  Melford 
looked  very  grave.  Much  as  she  might  wish  to  serve  Miss 
Leshe,  she  said  their  very  slight  acquaintance  would  hardly 
justify  her  encomitering  the  responsibility  which  tlie  rec-om- 
mendation  of  a  governess  must  entail  upon  herself.  Emily 
Melford,  for  the  moment  permitted  a  good  heart  to  triumph 
over  habitual  indolence,  and  declared  she  would  make  every 
possible  inquiry — ^would  say  every  thing  in  her  favor,  and 
she  had  no  doubt  she  should  succeed. 

"  Take  care,  Emily,  what  you  promise,"  was  Lady  Mel- 
ford's warning  observation.  "  You  say  you  are  not  equal 
to  the  least  exertion  now,  and  this  will  demand  a  great 
deal." 

"  Lideed,  mamma,  I  will  do  all  I  can,  though  of  course 
1  cannot  promise  success,"  replied  Emily,  unconsciously 
a-flected  at  the  ghstening  eyes  and  flushed  cheek   which 


woman's  friendship.  117 

were  turned  towards  her  with  an  expression  of  such  grateful 
acknowledgment,  that  it  made  her  feel  for  the  moment 
they  were  girls  again  in  Devonshire.  Florence  could  not 
doubt  her,  nay,  for  the  moment  she  felt  it  difficult  to  retain 
the  wounded  pride  which  Emily's  previous  unkindness  and 
neglect  had  so  painfully  engendered.  She  did  not  know 
how  fatally  selfish  indolence  had  deadened  every  good  and 
k'indly  feeling — that  Emily's  impulses  were  as  vivid  &,nd 
evanescent  as  the  sparks  from  flint — never  visible,  save 
from  sudden  and  violent  friction,  and  then  vanishing  into 
air. 

Floience  at  length  rose  to  go  ;  they  asked  her  to  stay 
ar.d  dine,  and,  on  her  refusing,  begged  her  to  come  when- 
ever she  felt  inclined  for  the  exertion  ;  they  should  always 
be  happy  to  see  her. 

"  It  is  a  shame  even  to  ask  you  to  make  such  an  exertion: 
Florence  ;  for-  it  would  kill  me,  I  am  sure.  You  surely 
will  not  walk  home  ?" 

"  No,"  Florence  said  ;  most  probably  she  should  return 
home  by  one  of  the  public  conveyances. 

"  "What,  alone  ?  Ah,  I  always  said  you  were  meant  for 
a  heroine,  Florence." 

"  Not  much  of  one,  dear  Emily,  for  I  believe  a  heroine 
would  hardly  be  so  univillingly  independent  as  I  am  com- 
pelled to  be.  Exertion  is  indeed  no  new  thing  to  me,  and 
I  must  regard  it  still  less,  henceforth,  than  I  have  hitherto 
done." 

As  Florence  descended  the  stairs,  two  young  men  riT* 
hastily  against  her,  then  paused  to  look  at  her,  half  m 
doubt,  half  in  inquiry,  politely  apologized,  an  apology 
merely  ai^knowledged  by  a  graceful  bow,  and  the  gentlemen 
bounded  into  the  drawing-room.  "  Who,  m  the  world,  is 
that  pale,  elegant  girl?"  exclaimed  one.  "Pretty  she  is 
not,  but  something  better — graceful,  distinguie.  "Who  is 
she?" 

"Is  it  possible  you  have  so  completely  forgotten  her 
Alfred  ?     Why,  Florence  Leslie." 

"  TJiat  Florence  Leslie  ?  Wliat,  Ida's  favorite  Flower 
of  St.  John's  ?  What  a  fool  not  to  know  her  I  Whoie 
has  she  hid  herself  all  this  time  ?" 

"  Why  did  you  not  come  in   before  ?  you  would  have 


118  woman's  friendship. 

known  all,  then,  without  my  having  the  trouble  of  tclinij 
you — for  pity's  sake  remember  my  nerves. 

"  I  beg  pardon  of  your  nerves,  Emily,  but  I  will  knov 
Bomething  more  of  Florence — she  was  such  a  merry  com 
panion  once.  Come,  Frank,  by  the  way,  you  used  to 
admire  her,  too."  And  young  Melford,  regardless  of  all 
remonstrances,  alike  from  his  sisters  or  his  companion,  ran 
down  the  stairs,  dragging  Frank  along  with  him,  and 
speedily  overtook  Florence,  who,  fatigued  and  depressed 
by  long  suppressed  emotion,  had  proceeded  but  a  very 
short  way.  "  Miss  Leslie,  I  have  run  after  you  on  purpose 
to  entreat  your  forgiveness  for  my  stupidity  in  not  recog- 
nising you,"  was  his  address  in  a  tone  so  truly  respectful, 
that  it  quickly  subdued  the  alarm  experienced  by  Florence 
in  finding  herself  so  followed.  "  Ah,"  he  continued,  as  she 
accepted  his  apology  with  a  bright  blush,  and  lively  smile, 
"  if  you  had  looked  as  you  do  now  when  I  first  met  you,  I 
should  have  recognised  you  directly ;  should  not  you, 
Howard  ?" 

"  I  fancied  Miss  Leslie's  countenance  familiar  to  mC; 
even  in  the  first  momentary  glance,"  was  the  reply  ;  and 
Florence's  attention,  awakened  by  the  name,  she  glanced 
hastily  towards  him,  answering  his  greeting  by  a  silent 
bow. 

Hov/ard  I  could  this  be  the  handsome  intelligent  boy, 
with  v/hom  she  had  danced  so  often  on  that  ever-memorabk 
night,  the  night  of  Lady  Ida's  ball?  w^hose  round  jacket 
and  Byron  collar  had  so  often  excited  Emily  Melford't 
raillery  on  Florence's  odd  propensity  for  unfledged  {i.  <?., 
uncoated)  men  ?  It  must  be,  for  the  countenance  was  the 
same,  only  mellowed  into  more  manly  beauty  ;  and  the 
slight  boyish  form  had  so  sprung  up  into  the  graceful,  yet 
muscular  proportions  of  a  tall,  aristocrsttic-looking  man, 
that  it  seemed  strange  to  Florence  that  only  four  years 
_  could  have  wrought  such  a  change,  making  him  appear  so 
much  her  senior,  when  he  was  in  fact  her  junior  by  a  year. 

"  Well,  Miss  Leslie,  I  hope  we  shall  have  our  long 
exiled  Ida  home  soon,"  observed  young  Mciibrd,  after 
gayly  conversing  on  their  former  acquaintance,  and  the 
many  enjoyments  of  St.  John's.  "  There  is  some  talk 
of  Lord   St.  Maur  receiving  some  high  office  at  home  Id 


v/oman's   friendship.  ■  119 

return  for  his  services  abroad;    and  then  of  course  you 
will  see  Ida.     She  is  not  one  to  forget  old  friends  " 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

FLORENCE  A   GOVERNESS, — WALTER   IS  ILL. — TRIALS. — A  MESSAGE. 

Little  as  Fljorence  expected  kindness  from  Lady  Mel- 
ford's  family,  she  did  not,  could  not  believe  that  Emily's 
professions  of  interest  were  so  completely  without  founda- 
tion, that  she  actually  never  again  thought  of  Florence  or 
her  wishes,  until  a  note  from  Florence  several  weeks  after- 
wards, informing  her  that  she  had  obtained  a  situation, 
and  therefore  that  she  needed  no  further  exertion  on  the 
part  of  her  friends,  recalled  to  the  oblivious  young  lady 
that  she  had  made  no  exertion  at  all.  It  did  occasion  a 
passing  qualm,  which  she  would  gladly  not  have  felt,  but 
indolence  speedily  crept  over  her  to  deaden  even  this.  It 
was  too  much  trouble  to  think  of  what  could  not  be  re- 
medied, and  so  she  quietly  resigned  herself  to  forgetful- 
ness.  No  doubt  she  would  have  expressed  pleasure  had 
Florence  crossed  her  path,  but  as  to  seeking  her,  Emily 
Melford  would  have  shunned  the  exertion  as  an  impossi- 
bility.    Little  things  were  too  large  for  her. 

Florence  had  indeed  at  length  succeeded  in  obtaining 
employment.  A  widow  lady  with  a  grown-up  son,  and 
two  little  girls,  had  lately  taken  a  house  in  the  vicinity  of 
Norwood,  coming,  it  was  said,  from  Hampshire,  where  all 
her  friends  and  family  still  lived.  She  was  one  of  the  old 
school,  prim,  severe,  and  very  reserved,  and  Florence  felt 
her  heart  sink  within  her  at  the  first  conference.  Her 
qualifications  were  asked,  in  one  cold  measured  tone, 
Mrs.  Hussel  offered  remuneration  with  most  unusual  lib- 
erality, and  Florence  :;losed  at  once. 

We  will  not  hnger  on  the  anguish  of  the  separation,  the 
bitter  parting  of  that  beloved  one  from  the  home  of  her 
childhood,  for  the  cold  hearth  of  strangers.  It  is  a  pang 
we  fear  that  will  find  its  echo  in  too  many  hearts.  Yet 
♦yhere  are  some  in  this  chequered  world  of  ours  who  are 


120  avoman's   friendship. 

insensible  to  the  voice  of  home,  unconscioiis  of  its  pe- 
cuhar  sanctity,  for  they  gladly  turn  from  it,  preferring 
even  dependence  to  resting  in  a  lowly  sphere :  and 
Bome  there  are  who,  fostered  in  wea-lth,  happiness,  and 
luxury,  thoughtlessly  look  on  the  young  instructress  as 
one  "born  to  labor  ai^i  endure,  unconscious  that  there 
are  as  deep  fountains  of  sorrow  and  love  in  her  hidden 
breast  as  in  her  own.  That,  perhaps,  the  object  of 
their  neglect  or  their  contempt  has,  like  them,  a  fond 
mother,  whose  hearth,  as  her  heart,  is  desolate  for  the 
departed — brothers,  sisters,  yearning  to  look  upon  her  face 
again,  and  towards  whom,  her  lonely  spirit  turns  so  long- 
ingly and  so  vainly. 

It  was  long,  very  long,  ere  poor  Florence  could  feel  in 
any  degree  reconciled  to  this  great  change.  Peculiarly 
clingingly  domestic,  her  affections,  with  the  sole  exception 
of  Lady  St.  Maur,  concentrated  in  her  own  family.  She 
did,  indeed,  feel  lonely,  as  she  passed  evening  after  even- 
ing in  her  solitary  room,  released  from  her  charge  regu- 
larly as  the  clock  struck  seven.  Speaking  to  none,  seem- 
ingly cared  for  by  none  ;  alone,  though  often  the  house 
was  full.  She  thought  at  first  she  should  enjoy  these 
hours,  as  enabling  her  to  pursue  her  favorite  employ- 
ments :  but  oh  I  how  changed  and  sad  they  seemed,  as  if 
they  could  scarcely  be  the  same  which  had  engaged  her, 
when  her  mother's  eye  was  beaming  on  her,  her  sister's 
sweet  voice  in  its  laugh  or  song  thrilling  to  her  heart,  her 
brother's  soul-expressive  face,  bending  over  his  wiiting,  or 
lifted  up  to  her's  asking  her  sympathy  with  some  favorite 
book,  and  though  but  a  few  miles  separated,  how  utterly 
was  she  alone  ! 

Her  mind  was,  however,  too  well  regulated  to  encourage 
such  weakening  sorrow.  Mrs.  Russel  was  no  physiog- 
nomist, and  she  could  not  read  in  the  pale  countenance 
she  looked  on  regularly  every  morningat  a  specified  hour 
and  for  a  specified  time,  any  thing  more  than  was  perfectly 
natural.  She  knew  nothing  of  Florence's  history,  and 
did  not  think  it  beseeming  in  her  to  inquire.  As  to  eli- 
citing any  just  praise,  it  was  a  thing  impossible.  She  had 
explained  to   Miss  Leslie   her   educational  plans — sat  in 


woman's   friendship.  121 

the  scliool-room  several  mornings  to  see  them  followed, 
and  then  no  longer  mterfered. 

It  was  not  pride  which  actuated  this  conduct ;  but  that 
Florence,  as  the  chosen  instructress  of  her  children,  could 
be  a  person  demanding  the  suffrages  and  respect  of  society, 
were  notions,  as  much  too  visionary  for  Mrs.  Russel  as 
they  arc  to  very  many  others.  The  creed,  that  instructors 
of  youth  are  real  benefactors  of  their  kind,  and  should  be 
regarded  with  respect  and  gratitude,  may  be  excellent  in 
theory,  but  in  practice — let  the  fact  decide — the  moment  a 
young  woman  is  compelled  to  teach  for  her  subsistance, 
she  sinks  at  once  into  a  lower  grade. 

Months  glided  by  slowly  and  sadly  for  our  herome.  It 
's  a  false  doctrine  to  promulgate,  that  the  performancj  of 
iistasteful  duties  at  once  brings  happiness.  If  it  did, 
surely  there  could  be  no  trial  to  perform,  no  temptetion 
to  elude  them. 

Our  heavenly  Father  sends  no  trial,  no  sorrow,  to  be 
felt  as  'pleautre^  as  some  would  make  us  believe.  For  our 
good  indeed,  our  eternal  good ;  but  would  He  hold  forth 
this  blessed  goal,  did  we  refuse  to  labor,  in  care  and 
sorrow  to  obtain  it  ?  No,  sorrow  indeed  zs  blessed,  for 
there  is  a  still  small  voice  urging  us  on,  encouraging  and 
consohng,  but  many  v/eary  months  must  pass  ere  mournful 
duties  become  joys. 

Happy,  Florence  was  not.  She  had  too  many  sources 
of  disquiet  ;  but  the  first  stupifying  influence  of  sorrow 
and  change  had  been  conquered  by  fervent  prayer  and 
increasing  effort,  and  she  became  reconciled  to  her  weary 
path.  The  act  of  teaching  became  easier  from  use  ;  even 
Mrs.  Hussel's  stiff  and  chilling  mamier  became  more  en- 
durable, and  gratefully  did  she  feel  that  to  write  cheerfully 
home  was  less  an  effort  than  it  had  been. 

Florence  had  been  six  months  with  Mrs.  Kusscl,  when 
her  anxiety  was  fearfully  aroused  by  a  letter  from  Mmie. 
"Walter  had  appeared  more  languid  than  usual  for  several 
weeks,  but  still  persisted  in  saymg  he  was  perfectly  well, 
and  in  attending  to  his  business,  a  few  days  previously, 
he  had  been  conveyed  home  in  his  master's  carriage  in  an 
almost  exhausted  state  ;  the  head  clerk  had  accompanied 
him,    and  given  the  alarming  information,   tkat  he   had 

11 


122  woman's   friendship 

several  sacccsslve  days  fainted  at  his  desk,  but  thai  no 
persuasion,  no  arf^ument,  could  prevail  on  him  to  give  up. 
He  had  ralhed.  Minie  continued  to  say,  a:id  was  decidedly 
better,  but  his  mother  had  forbidden,  and  his  employers 
had  absolutely  refused  his  services  till  his  strength  should 
be  properly  restored. 

Florence's  first  impulse  was  to  return  home  instantly, 
that  her  deep  anxiety  might  be  either  removed  or  justified 
Her  next  thought  compelled  restraint  and  control ;  foi 
Mrs.  K-ussel  had  left  home  on  a  visit  to  some  of  her  re- 
lations, and  her  return  was  uncertain.  She  could  not 
leave  h<^r  charge.  Every  post  indeed  brought  her  int(/lli- 
gence ;  but  what  were  written  assurances  to  a  mind 
fancying  every  evil  and  longmg  to  lavish  on  the  sufferer 
all  the^  affection  with  which  her  heart  was  filled?  At 
length  she  looked  once  more  on  the  hand-writing  of  her 
brother.  It  was  but  a  few  Unes,  but  oh,  how  inexpressibly 
precious  to  their  reader  ! 

"  Florence,  dearest  Florence,"  it  ran — "  at  length  I  may 
trace  that  dear  name  again.  Oh  !  how  painful  I  yearn 
to  feel  you  by  my  side,  to  listen  to  your  gentle  voice  ;  bul 
it  is  an  idle  wish,  my  Florence ;  I  have  been  ill,  they  teD 
me,  very  ill ;  but  I  think  they  say  more  than  the  fact  to 
keep  me  content  at  home;  they  think  thus  to  reconcile 
me  to  idleness  and  rest.  Florence,  Florence,  how  can 
this  be  ?  How  can  I  be  content  when  so  much,  nay,  all 
must  depend  on  me  ?  There  was  a  time,  that  no  pang 
was  joined  with  the  dream  of  death  ;  but  now,  now — oh  ' 
if  I  must  die,  what  will  become  of  my  beloved  ones  ? 
"Who  is  there  to  work  for  them,  to  save  thein  from  priva- 
tion and  its  hundred  woes  ?  I  know  this  is  sinful  mistrust — 
I  strive  against  it — Florence,  pray  for  me,  I  cannot  for  my- 
self. I  know  your  tears  are  fallmg  at  these  wild  and  sin- 
ful words;  forgive  them,  Florence,  dearest,  kmdest.  God 
forever  bless  you  and  preserve  you  to  your  "Vf  alter." 

Vainly,  for  several  successive  hours  did  Florence  struggle 
wdth  her  emotion.  She  knew  her  brother  so  well,  that  for 
him  to  give  vent  to  such  despondency,  his  spirits  must  be 
smik  mdeed.  Yet  she  had  to  teach  with  a  siiiidng 
frame  and  sickening  heart;  to  answer  the  innumerable 
questions  of  her  prattling  companions  ;  to  compel  them  to 


WOMAN    S    FRIENDSHIP.  123 

altention  ami  obedience  ;  to  walk  out  with  them,  and  then 
again  resume  the  afternoon  routine  of  work  and  study: 
and  not  till  the  return  of  Mrs.  Russel  in  the  evening  re- 
lieved her  of  her  charge,  had  she  leisure  so  to  compose  her 
agitated  spirits  as  to  think  calmly.  Would  it  be  wise  to 
go  to  her  brother  ?  Walter  had  tender  nurses,  most  alFec- 
tionate  friends  ;  he  wanted  notliing  which  they  could  give. 
Would  it  then  be  right  to  give  up  her  present  situation 
merely  for  the  consolation  of  being  with  him  ?  No,  she 
would  work  on,  if  it  were  but  to  provide  luxuries  and 
comforts  for  him  ;  and  the  ardent  girl  clasped  her  hands, 
and  raised  her  swollen  eyes  in  fervent  thanksgiving,  that 
to  do  so  was  m  her  power.  She  pondered  deeply  how  she 
could  increase  her  salary.  Her  pupils  had  just  commenced 
drawing,  but  Mrs.  Russel  Avas  not  satisfied  with  their  in- 
structor ;  and  Florence,  convinced  that  she  was  capable 
of  teaching  that  accomplishment,  indulged  the  hope  that 
Mrs.  Russel  would  gladly  accept  her  services  instead,  and 
raise  her  salary  accordingly.  She  had  just  brought  her 
meditations  to  this  conclusion,  feeling  equal  to  any  exer- 
tion, and  beheving  the  greatest  misfortune  which  could  now 
befall  her,  would  be  to  be  dismissed  from  her  present  em- 
ployment, when  a  message  was  delivered  to  her,  that  Mrs. 
Russel  wished  to  speak  with  her  in  the  parlor.  It  was  a 
summons  so  unprecedented,  that  Florence,  already  in  a 
painfully  excited  state,  had  scarcely  courage  to  obey — 
trembling  with  forebodings  that  new  evils  were  impending, 
which  she  should  have  no  power  to  resist. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

MRS.    RUSSEL.  —  HASTY    CONCLUSION.  —  INJUSTICE.  —  DISMISSAL. - 
GRIEF. A   mother's   LOVE. 

Mrs.  Russel  was  sitting  with  more  than  her  usual 
stiffness  in  her  old-fashioned  chair,  her  visage  grim  and 
frowning,  with  an  expression  round  the  mouth,  plainly  in 
dicating  that  she  had  formed  some  resolution  which  no 
power   on    earth   could    change.     A   sHght,   scarcely  per- 


12 i  WOMAN    S    FRf£NDSIi:r. 

ceptible  movement  of  the  head  acknowledged  the  entrance 
and  meek  obedience  of  Florence  ;  but  no  sign  nor  word 
authorized  her  to  be  seated.  There  was  a  short,  dry 
cough  on  the  part  of  the  lady,  followed  by  a  hum  and  ha, 
and  then : 

"Miss  LesUe,"  she  demanded  shortly;  "pray  are  you 
acquainted  with  Mrs.  Rivers,  of  Woodlands,  near  "VYinches- 
tor?" 

"  Yes,  Madam,  she  is  a  connection  of  the  famLy,  and 
has  been " 

"Miss  Leslie,  I  asked  an  answer,  not  a  commentary: 
you  resided  with  her,  I  presume  ?  joined  in  society  at  "Win 
Chester?" 

"  Yes,  madam,"  replied  Florence,  briefly. 

"  Then,  Miss  Leslie,  I  must  inform  you  that  your  ser- 
vices henceforth  are  dispensed  with.  My  daughters  Lre 
much  too  young  and  inexperienced  to  be  left  to  your 
charge.  You  have  deceived  me  egregiously,  by  daring  to 
obtain  a  footing  in  my  family  as  a  respectable  person,  when 
you  must  be  quite  aware  you  can  lay  no  claim  to  such  a  char- 
acter. Here  is  the  sum  total  of  my  debt  for  your  services, 
and  a  trifle  in  addition,  as  I  wish  to  do  nothmg  imhand- 
somely :  we  part  to-morrow,  and  as  there  is  no  occasion  for 
any  further  rejoinder,  you  may  retire." 

Stimned,  yet  bewildered,  Florence  had  listened  to  this 
most  extraordinarj-  harangue  ;  she  could  not  comprehend 
to  what  Mrs.  Russel  could  refer.  At  any  other  time,  nat- 
ural indignation  would  have  given  her  not  only  voice,  but 
eloquence  ;  but  now,  depressed;  almost  exhausted  by  the 
emotions  of  the  day,  she  felt  as  if  she  had  not  energy 
enough  to  articulate  a  single  word.  At  that  moment  she 
thought  of  Walter  ;  how  could  she  aid  him  if  thus  sent 
away,  not  only  deprived  of  employment,  but  of  character  ? 
The  color  returned  to  her  pale  cheek,  and  to  any  other  than 
Mrs.  E-ussel,  the  modest  firmness,  alike  of  her  voice  and 
manner,  would  have  been  sufficient  proof  of  innocence. 

"  If,  madam,"  she  said,  "  you  have  lost  all  confidence 
in  me,  you  are  right  to  decline  my  services ;  but  you  must 
pardon  me,  if  I  refuse  to  retire,  until  you  have  informed 
me  of  what  you  accuse  me  ;  I  deny  all  deception  towards 
you,  nor  am  I  in  the  very  least  aware  how  I  have  forfeited 


woman's    FRIEx\D8HIP.  125 

my  claim  to  respectability,  as  you  are  pleased  to  assert. 
My  conscience  is  free  from  all  intentional  ofience  from  any 
conduct  that  would  unfit  me  for  the  guidance  of  youth." 

"  Of  your  conduct,  whilst  under  my  roof,  I  have  notliing 
to  complain,"  replied  Mrs.  Russel,  unmoved  by  the  sup- 
pressed, but  visible  emotion  .with  which  Florence  spoke  ; 
"  but  Miss  Leslie,  you  must  be  aware,  however  you  may 
now  repent  of  former  follies,  and  resolve  to  amend  them, 
that  a  young  person,  whose  conduct  in  Winchester  was 
such  as  to  make  her  name  a  term  of  opprobrium  to  all  its 
inhabitants,  can  be  no  fit  companion  for  young  people. 
My  son  is  returning  from  the  continent,  and  I  wish  to  have 
no  person  with  my  daughters  whose  character  for  flirtatiou 
and  coquetry  would  render  his  visits  to  his  sister's  study, 
equally  unsafe  and  unpleasant.  Your  varying  color.  Miss 
Leslie,  is  sufficient  answer ;  you  have  compelled  me  to 
speak  plainly,  and  now  1  hope  you  are  perfectly  satisfied 
as  to  the  justice  of  my  decision." 

Florence's  color  did,  indeed,  vary  ;  for  gradually,  but 
slowly,  the  conviction  dawned  upon  her,  that  Mrs.  E-ussel 
was  confounding  her  with  her  cousin  Flora.  Rallying 
every  energy,  she  forced  herself  to  relate  the  real  facts,  and 
solemnly  assert  that  at  the  time  Flora  Leslie's  conduct  had 
been  most  reprehensible,  she  had  been  residing  in  London 
with  her  newly  widowed  mother.  No  change,  however 
took  place  in  the  sour  visage  of  Mrs.  Uussel. 

"  She  had  heard,"  she  said,  "  but  of  one  Miss  Leslie 
whose  name  was,  people  reported,  Florence  ;  and  if  then 
were  two  Miss  Leshes  residing  at  "Woodlands,  of  name? 
so  exactly  sim'iar,  it  was  strange  no  one  had  ever  heard 
of  it." 

*'  Pardon  me,  madam,  it  was  scarcely  strange  ;  I  very 
seldom  entered  mto  society,  and  latterly,  indeed,  not  at'  all, 
for  I  was  then  in  mourning  for  my  dear  father." 

*'  You  may  be  speaking  truth.  Miss  Leslie,  I  will  not 
take  upon  myself  to  contradict,"  replied  the  lady,  who,  by 
the  way,  prided  herself  on  her  rigid  love  of  justice  ;  "  but 
you  must  permit  me  to  ask  you  what  proof,  except  your 
own  family,  who,  of  course,  will  repeat  the  same  tale,  can 
you  bring  forward  to  convince  me  I  am  wrong,  and  you 
are  right  ?" 


12G  woman's     FRlENDSIIir. 

"  Proofs,  madam,  indeed,  I  have  none,"  was  Florence's 
mild  rc2)ly,  though  the  indignant  blood  had  dyed  her 
cheeks  ;  "  lor  of  Mrs.  Ptivers,  I  have  mihappily  lost  all 
trace,  and  Flora,  now  Mrs.  Major  Hardwicke,  even  if  I 
knew  her  address,  would  scarcely  do  me  justice  by  impli- 
cating herself" 

"  That  is  to  say,  you  have  lost  all  traces  of  Mrs.  Kivers 
♦hrough  your  own  misconduct,  an  inference  tallying  exactly 
with  the  reports  I  have  heard,  and  of  course  you  cannot 
know  Miss  Flora  Leslie's  address,  as,  in  my  opinion,  no 
such  person  exists.  Oh,  for  shame  !  for  shame  I  young  as 
you  are,  to  be  so  hardened  in  guilt  I  Well,  well,  I  desire 
you  to  retire,  for  you  must  perceive  your  improbable  tale 
weighs  little  against  the  reports  and  warnings  I  have 
received." 

"  I  will  obey  you,  madam,"  replied  Florence,  strugglinvv 
with  the  indignant  pride,  which  the  cruel  behef  that  she 
had  spoken  falsely  even  at  that  moment  called  ;  "  Thank 
God  I  have  yet  a  mother's  faithful  love,  and  sinless  home, 
to  which  I  may  return,  and  may  that  God  who  knows  my 
perfect  mnocence,  forgive  you  the  injustice  you  have 
shown  me  I" 

And  with  a  proud  step,  but  bursting  heart,  Florence 
turned  from  the  parlor.  She  paused  not  till  she  reached 
her  own  apartment ;  but  then  sinking  on  a  chair,  she 
buried  her  aching  temples  in  her  hands  ;  she  could  not 
weep,  though  her  eyes  felt  starting  from  her  head  ;  her 
character  taken  from  her,  without  the  possibility  of  provmg 
how  falsely  ;  how  could  she  obtain  employment — how 
assist  her  brother  ?  the  future  was  all  dark,  she  could  not 
penetrate  its  folds,  save  to  look  on  sorrow. 

Great,  indeed,  was  the  surprise  and  pleasure  of  Mrs. 
Leslie's  little  family,  when  about  noon  the  foUoAving  day, 
Florence  made  her  appearance. 

"  Florence,  my  own  sister,  this  is  kind  indeed,"  exclaimed 
Walter,  half  rising  from  his  recumbent  posture,  to  fold  her 
in  his  arms ;  "I  hardly  dared  hope  a  personal  answer  to 
my  murmuring  letter ;  but  I  am  better,  much  better. 
Mother,  am  I  not  ?  why,  I  am  sure  you  look  paler,  and 
more  suffermg  than  I  do.  Florence,  there  is  something 
more  the  matter  than  my  illness — ^what  is  it  ?" 


WOMAN   S    FRIENDSHIP,  127 

"  Nay,  was  not  that  enough,  dearest  "Walter,  to  make  me 
anxious,"  she  reph'ed,  strugghng  to  smile  ;  but  the  effort 
only  increased  her  brother's  alarm,  the  more  so,  as  he  per- 
ceived that  her  lip  so  quivered,  that  she  could  only  cling 
closer  to  him,  and  cover  his  pale  brow  with  kisses. 

"  Florence,  my  child,  speak  to  me — what  has  chanced  ? 
you  are  ill,  unhappy,  and  would  hide  it ;  but  you  cannot ; 
come  to  me,  love,  come  to  your  mother's  heart,  you  will 
find  rest  there." 

"  Mother,"  gasped  poor  Florence,  throwing  herself  on 
her  knees  beside  her  mother,  and  laying  her  throbbing 
head  on  her  bosom ;  "  I  have  come  to  you  discarded,  ac- 
cused, condemned,  sent  from  the  house  where  I  have 
striven  night  and  day  to  do  my  duty,  as  one  wholly  un- 
fitted by  previous  conduct  for  my  charge,  my  word  disbe- 
lieved, my  whole  family  implicated  in  the  charge  of  decep- 
tion :  oh,  mother — mother — teach  me^  how  to  bear  this 
heavy  trial  !     I  have  no  strength — no " 

Her  sobs  impeded  further  speech,  and  she  saw  not  the 
effect  of  her  words  on  her  mother,  whose  cheeks  and  lips 
became  of  a  livid  whiteness,  while  the  large  beads  of  mois- 
ture gathered  on  her  brow. 

"Who  has  dared  to  malign  you?"  exclaimed  "Walter, 
springing  from  his  couch  with  the  strength  of  sudden  ex- 
citement; *'  Florence,  my  stainless  Florence,  who  has  dared 
to  charge  you  with  aught  of  shame  ?  tell  me,  only  tell  me  ; 
I  have  strength  enough  to  defend  you." 

But,  even  as  he  spoke,  he  sunk  back  exhausted ;  and 
fearing  to  agitate  him  still  more,  Florence  briefly  but 
clearly  related  the  interview  between  her  and  Mrs.  Russel, 
adding  her  own  suppositions  as  to  the  origin  of  the  charge 
against  her. 

"  God  of  mercy !  I  thank  thee,  and  this  is  all  I"  ejac- 
ulated Mrs.  Leslie,  hi  a  voice  of  such  fervent  thanks- 
giving, it  sounded  almost  strangely  to  her  children  ;  and 
rising  with  recovered  power,  she  folded  Florence  to  her 
bosom.  "  Heed  it  not,  my  beloved  girl ;  heed  not  the 
false  accusations  of  the  unjust  and  prejudiced  ;  we  know — 
God  knows — that  you  are  innocent ;  be  comforted,  my 
child." 

"  How  may  I  be  comforted,  mother,  when   slander   is 


128  WOMAN    S    FRIENDSHIP. 

abroad,  and  busy  with  my  name  ?  liow  dare  I  seek  anotliei 
situation  till  my  innocence  is  proved,  and  yet  how  can  I 
rest  in  idleness  at  home  ?" 

A  low  suppressed  groan  from  Walter  filled  up  the  mo- 
mentary pause. 

"  My  child,  He  who  feedeth  the  sparrow,  and  olotheth 
the  lilies  of  the  field,  will  prote^.t  and  provide  for  us ;  oh  ! 
trust  Him,  dearest,  and  He  A\dll  not  forsake  us.  Tell  me, 
only  tell  me  there  is  comfort  in  your  mother's  home,  my 
child  ;  that  there,  at  least,  your  innocence  shall  be  your 
strength,  and  trust  our  heavenly  Father  for  the  rest." 

Florence  did  not  reply,  but  her  tears  flowed  less  bit- 
terly, and  gradually  composure  returned.  "When  partially 
recovered  from  her  o^vn  sorrow,  Florence  became  conscious 
of  the  great  change  in  "Walter ;  reduced  almost  to  a  skele- 
ton, his  cheeks  sunken,  and  only  too  often  dyed  with  ap- 
palling crim.son  ;  his  beautiful  eyes,  lustrous  as  they  were 
v/ont  to  be,  but  seemingly  larger,  from  the  attenuation  of 
his  other  features,  the  blue  veins  on  his  clear  brow  so  dis- 
tinctly visible,  that  almost  might  be  traced  the  languid  cur- 
rent beneath  ;  the  parched  lip  ;  the  prostrating  weakness, 
each  day  confirmed,  all  revealed  the  insidious  disease  which 
had  already  claimed  him. 

Great  as  was  Mrs.  Leslie's  trust  in  a  merciful,  over- 
ruling Providence,  she  neglected  nothing  that  could  x>^'ove 
that  Florence  and  Flora  Leslie  were  tv/o  persons,  by 
making  every  inquiry  for  Mrs.  Hivers ;  but  unhappily  all 
her  efibrts  failed.  Woodlands  was  let ;  the  steward  and 
those  of  Mrs.  Rivers'  old  retainers,  who  had  lingered  on 
the  estate  while  he  was  there,  had  aU  disappeared ;  and 
Mrs.  LesHe,  with  an  aching,  but  stiU  faithful  heart,  was  com- 
pelled to  dismiss  all  hopes  of  earthly  justice,  and  strive  to 
rest  her  own  hope  and  that  of  her  child,  on  that  heavenly 
Judge,  who  woidd  not  forever  leave  them  wronged. 


woman's  friendship.  129 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

GENIUS. — THE   MANUSCRIPT. 

The  winter  passed  with  little  change  to  the  Leslie 
family.  Florence,  at  length,  obtained  engagements  as 
daily  governess  ui  two  or  three  families,  an  employment 
infinitely  more  arduous  than  her  former  undertaking  ;  but 
all  weariness  and  anxiety  were  soothed  by  the  privilege  of 
returning  to  her  own  home,  at  six  o'clock  every  evening. 
How  often,  as  she  walked  to  her  different  pupils,  in  all  the 
miseries  of  a  London  winter,  the  rain  splashing  in  pools 
around  her,  saturating  her  dress,  or  the  sleet,  and  snow,  and 
wind  driving  so  full  against  her,  as  to  demand  the  exertion 
of  all  her  little  strength  to  struggle  against  them,  did  her 
thoughts  revert  to  the  happy  past,  and  the  friends  there 
associated  ! 

"  How  little  did  I  then  dream  of  my  presei'.t  life," 
thought  Florence  sadly ;  "  better  that  I  did  not,  for  I  should 
have  shrunk  from  its  anticipation  with  even  deeper  suffering 
that  I  do  from  its  performance.  I  am  more  worthy  of  Lady 
Ida's  affections  now  than  then,  and  yet  she  cannot  valuC; 
for  she  will  not  meet  me  now." 

It  was  strange  how  often  the  form  and  face  o^  Francis 
Howard  mingled  in  these  remuiiscences  of  Lady  St.  Maur  ; 
how  stealthily,  and  often  unconsciously  she  found  the 
wish  arising,  that  in  her  daily  walks  she  might  chance  to 
meet  him,  speak  with  him  again,  and  the  wish  would  often 
return,  m  spite  of  her  fixed  resolve  to  banish  it  whenever 
it  arose.  But  with  all  their  economy,  all  the  labor  of 
these  two  devoted  girls,  for  Minie  worked  at  home,  per- 
severingly  as  Florence  taught  abroad,  they  could  but  clear 
their  way,  and  provide  AValter  with  the  luxuries,  the  deli- 
cacies, his  state  of  bodily  suffering  so  painfully  demanded. 
The  winter,  too,  was  always  pecuharly  tr^'ing  to  Mrs. 
Leslie,  and  all  seemed  to  devolve  on  the  sisters,  wiio  cared 
not  for  any  personal  labor,  so  that  smiles  brightened  the 


130  WOMAN'S    FRIENDSHIP. 

countenance  of  those  beloved  ones  foi  whom  they  toiled; 
and,  in  spite  of  the  gnawmg  care  experienced  by  both  mO' 
ther  and  son,  those  smiles  did  await  them  still. 

To  Minie,  even  the  decided  ills  of  poverty  were  ncA'-ei 
felt  as  such  ;  her  light  spirits  rebounded  from  every  casual 
trial,  as  if  it  had  no  more  power  to  darken  the  bright 
heaven  of  her  joy,  than  the  snow-flake  can  sully  the  grass 
which  receives  it.  And  truly  she  was  the  angel  of  that 
lowly  home  ;  her  mother  forgot  increasing  infirmity  and 
despcnding  hopes  ;  her  sister,  her  heavy  burden  of  care, 
even  her  consuming  anxiety  for  Walter,  when  Minie 
smiled,  or  carolled,  or  gave  vent  in  gleesome  words  to  the 
bursting  joyousness  of  her  little  heart.  It  was  scarcely 
strange  that  Minie  felt  no  painful  anticipations  with  regard 
to  Walter  ;  but  it  certainly  was,  that  Mrs.  Leslie  should 
have  been  so  completely  unconscious  of  his  danger.  Yet 
so  it  was,  he  suffered  apparently  so  little,  his  mind  was  so 
bright,  so  strong,  so  unfailing,  that  though  he  r.}gained  no 
strength,  his  mother  could  not  believe  the  near  vicinity  of 
death.  She  had  been  so  many  years  herself  hovering  on 
the  threshold  of  that  awful  bourne,  and  still  she  passed  it 
not,  that  she  could  not  realize  it  with  regard  to  her  cher- 
ished, her  gifted  boy. 

To  Florence  alone,  the  whole  extent  of  calamity  hanging 
over  them  appeared  revealed  ;  she  could  not  shake  off  the 
conviction  that  her  beloved  brother  was  in  truth  "  passing 
away,"  that  the  summer  would  return  with  all  lovely  things, 
but  find  not  the  poet  there. 

One  day,  about  the  middle  of  February,  Florence,  re- 
turning some  hours  earher  from  her  daily  avocations  than 
usual,  prevailed  on  her  mother  and  Minie  to  accept  the 
invitation  of  a-  friend  residing  further  in  the  country,  and 
remained  alone  w^ith  her  brother  ;  several  manuscripts 
were  lying  on  a  table  near  him,  but,  as  was  sometimes  the 
case,  he  had  sxink  into  a  sort  of  doze,  and  fearing  to  dis- 
turb him,  she  sat  down  to  continue  Minie's  work,  which 
lay  on  a  table  in  the  recess  of  a  window,  half  hidden  by 
the  curtains  :  for  nearly  an  hour  she  heard  no  movement, 
but  then  a-i'oused  by  the  rustling  of  paper,  she  turned 
lr>wards  the  oouch.     Walter  was  glancing  over  his  manu* 


woman's  friendship.  131 

scripts,  and  there  was  a  deep  flush  on  his  cheek,  a  sparkle  in 
his  eye,  giving  eloquent  answer  to  the  thoughts  he  read. 

"  And  will  ye,  too,  perish?"  she  heard  him  murmur,  as 
if  wholly  unconscious  of  her  presence — "  Will  ye,  too,  fade 
away  and  be  forgotten,  when  the  mind  that  has  framed, 
the  hand  that  has  traced  ye,  shall  lie  mouldering  in  the 
grave  ?  will  no  kindly  spirit  throb  and  bound  beneath 
your  spell ;  no  gentle  heart  find  in  ye  an  answer  ?  Oh, 
blessed,  indeed,  is  that  poet's  lot,  who  wins  the  applause 
of  a  world,  the  love,  the  reverence,  the  blessing  of  the 
gifted  and  the  good — who  feels  he  has  not  lived,  nor  loved, 
nor  sorrowed  in  vain  !  But  the  poet,  to  whom  these  things 
are  all  denied  ;  who  passeth  from  this  beauteous  earth, 
unknovni,  unloved,  his  name  with  his  body  buried  in  the 
cold,  shrouding  folds  of  death.  Father  !  oh,  my  father, 
have  mercy  on  thy  child  !"  and  covering  his  face  with  his 
spread  hands,  Florence  beheld  him  give  way  to  a  burst  of 
such  irrepressible  agony,  that  the  hot  tears  made  their  way 
between  his  transparent  hands,  and  the  attenuated  frame 
Bhook  with  sobs. 

Trembling  with  sympathizing  emotion,  Florence  sank 
back  in  the  chair  she  had  quitted  ;  she  longed  to  throw 
herself  on  his  neck,  to  beseech  him  to  be  comforted,  to 
breathe  of  hope,  but  she  felt  she  dared  not ;  at  length,  and 
unable  to  resist  the  impulse,  she  glided  forward  and,  knelt 
beside  him. 

"  Florence,  my  beloved  sister  !  oh,  I  have  terrified  you, 
I  forgot  your  presence,  imagined  myself  alone  ;  dearest,  heed 
it  not,  I  am  better  now,  it  was  bodily  weakness,  only  weak- 
ness, which  will  overpower  me  sometimes  ;  you  must  not 
mind  me." 

It  was  several  minutes  ere  Florence  could  reply  ;  but  as 
quickly  as  she  could,  she  reverted  to  those  treasured  manu- 
scripts, beseeching  him  to  let  her  read  them,  it  was  so  long 
since  she  had  done  so,  "W^th  a  faint  smile  he  acceded, 
Florence,  herself,  was  surprised ;  never  had  it  seemed  to 
her  that  such  beautiful  imagery,  such  glowing  thought, 
such  touching  pathos  had  breathed  so  powerfully  in  his 
compositions  before.  A  new  spirit  appeared  to  have 
lighted  on  them  ;  they  were  mostly  detached  pieces,  form- 
ing, indeed,  a  treasured  volume.     He  showed  her,  too,  the 


132  WOMAN    S     FRIENDSIIir. 

beautiful  designs  with  which  it  was  to  be  illustrated  ;  and 
Florence  no  longer  marvelled  at  the  burst  of  agony  wrung 
from  him  by  the  thought,  that  these  emanations,  of  no 
common  genius,  must  pass  aM^ay  and  be  forgotten  ;  but  even 
she  guessed  not  the  real  reason  of  his  longing,  and  the  poet 
betrayed  it  not. 

"  I  dreamed,"  he  said  mournfully,  "  when  in  all  the  glo\f 
and  heat  of  composition,  that  I  was  bequeathing  a  glorioua 
gift  to  my  country,  wreathing  my  name  with  immortality. 
I  seemed  to  forget  all  the  difficulties,  the  impossibilities, 
which  prevented  the  attainment  of  my  darling  wish  ;  but 
now,  dearest,  now  I  feel  it  is  a  shadow  that  I  have  sought, 
a  vain,  shapeless  shadow  ;  it  needs  influence,  wealth,  or,  to 
Say  the  least,  a  tiame,  and  I  have  neither — ^no,  no,  they 
must  die  with  me." 

"  Die  1"  murmured  Florence,  almost  inaudibly,  and  she 
paused  in  deep  and  mournful  thought ;  "  but  if  you  were 
strong  and  well,  Walter,  would  you  not  make  some  effort 
yourself?  at  least  ask  the  opinion  of  some  good  pubHsher  ; 
it  might  not  then  be  so  impossible  as  it  now  seems." 

"  If  I  were  well,  oh  !  Florence,  I  should  do  many  things, 
and  this  would  be  one  of  them,  I  own  ;  but  I  dare  not 
think  of  this,"  he  added  hurriedly,  and  evidently  with  pain , 
"  the  struggle  for  submission  has  been  mine  only  too  lately. 
I  know  not  how  to  trace,  to  love  the  mandate  that  chametb 
me  a  useless  burden  to  my  couch,  when  every  exertion  is 
needed  to  support  my  beloved  mother,  and  my  helplesa 
sisters  ;  and  yet,  oh,  Florence  !  morning  noon  and  night, 
I  pray  to  see  and  feel  this  ;  for  my  better  spirit  tells  me 
that  good  it  must  be,  or  it  would  not  come  from  an  all- 
loving  God." 

"  And  He  will  grant  us  both  this  blessed  trust,  in  his 
own  good  time,  my  brother ;  but  in  this  case,  dearest 
"Walter,  let  me  act  for  you,  trust  the  manuscripts  to  me,  and 
^et  me  endeavor  to  do  with  them  as  you  would  yourself." 

Her  brother  looked  at  her  with  affection  and  astonish- 
ment. 

"  You  know  not  the  difficulties  you  undertake,  my  Flo- 
rence," he  said  ;  "  how  many  hopes  will  be  raised,  only  tc 
be  disappointed  ;  how  much  fatigue  encountered " 

'*  I  care  not,"  was  her  instant  answer  ;  '*  I  am  so  accus 


woman's  friendship.  133 

tomed  now  to  independent  wanderings,  that  even  the 
crowded  streets  of  London  have  lost  their  terrors  :  do  not 
fear  for  me  ;  and  if  I  should  succeed,  Walter,  dear  Walter, 
what  would  previous  disappointments,  previous  anxiety  be 
then  ?" 

The  beaming  countenance  of  the  young  poet  was  her 
truest  answer,  and  once  the  precious  MSS.  deposited  in 
her  hands,  Florence  permitted  no  difficulty  to  deter  her ; 
weary,  and  often  exhausted  as  she  felt  from  seven,  some- 
times eight  successive  hours  passed  in  teaching,  she  would 
not  return  home,  till  she  had  accompHshed  something  in 
the  furtherance  of  her  trust.  Conquering  even  her  ex- 
treme repugnance  to  walkmg  about  the  metropolis  after 
the  lamps  were  lighted,  it  was  often  near  eight  in  the 
evening  before  she  returned  home.  Even  there,  every 
nerve  was  tightly  strung,  that  she  might  not  evince  the 
least  fatigue,  or  appear  desponding ;  for  the  anxious 
glance  of  .her  brother  awaited  her  ;  the  hope  she  had 
excited  lighting  up  his  pale  cheek  and  beautiful  eye  w^ith 
the  seeming  glow  of  health.  Yet  both  mutually  avoided 
the  subject.  Florence  dreading  to  impart  all  the  disap- 
pointments, which  she  did,  in  truth,  encounter;  and 
Walter,  from  physical  weakness,  absolutely  failing  in  cour- 
age to  ask  a  single  question,  well  knowing  that  were  there 
hope  to  give,  Florence  would  not  continue  silent. 

It  w^ould  be  useless  to  linger  on  the  disheartening  task 
which  the  devoted  sister  so  cheerfully  undertook ;  but  a1 
leng'Ji  her  perseverance  seemed  about  to  be  rcAvarded. 


CHAPTER  XXn. 

A  KIND   FRIEND. — THE   PUBLISHER. — THE   PHYSICIAN. 

As  Florence  would  not  have  any  of  the  letters  concern- 
ing the  poems  directed  at  home,  it  so  chanced  that  she 
received  one  of  the  numerous  rejections  in  the  hours  of 
teaching.  The  disappointment  imprinted  on  her  coun- 
tenance attracted  the  attention  of  a  benevolent  old  relation 
of  her   pupils,    who   frequently  visited   the   school  room. 


13J  woman's   friendship. 

lie  iiiqnlrcd  the  cause  so  feelingly  that  the  poor  girl's 
overburdened  heart  instantly  opened,  and  she  timidly  and 
briefly  imparted  some  particulars. 

Mr.  Wilson  listened  with  much  interest ;  then  asking 
for  pen  and  paper,  he  wrote  very  intently  for  a  few 
minutes,  and  then  placed  a  note  directed  to  one  of  the 
firs';  publishers  of  the  day,  in  her  hand.  "Take  this, 
my  good  girl,"  he  said  kindly;  "it  will  at  least  gain  you 
attention.  I  wish  I  could  do  more ;  but  you  know  we 
nust  be  just  before  Ave  are  generous  ;  and  if  I  did  all  I 
might  Avish,  I  should  be  wronging  my  own.  Do  not  look 
so  speechlessly  grateful,  my  child  ;  use  the  note,  and  ^od 
speed  you." 

And,  pressing  her  hand,  he  instantly  departed ;  but  his 
kind  offices  did  not  stop  there.  The  day  was  unusually 
fine,  and  Mr.  Wilson  begged  a  holyday  for  his  young  rela  = 
tives,  ostensibly  that  he  might  give  them  a  drive,  but  really 
that  Florence  might  have  the  leisure  to  prosecute  her  mis 
sion  at  once  ;  and  she  felt  it  such,  for  her  heart  swelled  in 
asking  a  blessing  on  the  kind  old  man,  though  he  would  not 
return  to  her  school-room  to  hear  it. 

Anxiously  yet  hopefully,  Florence  threaded  her  way 
through  the  huge  labyrinth  of  streets,  to  the  parks,  in  the 
vicinity  of  which  the  publisher  resided.  The  note  gained 
her  instant  attention,  and  one  glance  sufficed  for  her  to 
perceive  that  Mr.  Morton  was  very  different  from  many  of 
his  calling  ;  entering  at  once  into  the  business,  he  candidly 
stated  that  poetry,  unless  of  the  very  first  kind,  was  the 
most  i.nsaleable  sort  of  composition,  but  added  kindly,  "  But 
of  this  you  know  we  cannot  judge,  till  we  have  perused  the 
MS. ;  have  you  it  with  you  ?" 

She  answered  in  the  affirmative,  placing  as  she  did  so 
the  work  before  him.  He  saw  that  her  hand  trembled 
and  her  cheek  paled,  and  said  with  a  smile,  "  Why,  were 
it  not  for  my  friend's  note,  I  should  say,  Miss  Leslie,  that 
you  yourself  were  the  author ;  we  seldom  see  a  third 
person  so  deeply  interested.  You  have  not  been  playing 
us  false,  have  you  ?  and  passing  off  as  your  brother's  that 
which  is  your  own  ?" 

"  Indeed,  sir,  I  have  not ;  but  when  I  know  and  feel 
Uow    completely  the   being   of    a    beloved    and   suffering 


\v->man'3   fp.iendship.  135 

brother  is  bound  up  in  his  glorious  talent,  I  cannot  be 
otherwise  than  agitated  ;  a  very  casual  glance  over  those 
poems  will  convince  you  that  no  woman's  work  is  there." 

Surprised,  yet  prepossessed  by  her  unaffected  earnest- 
ness, Mr.  Morton,  after  some  further  conversation,  gave 
his  whole  attention  for  nearly  half  an  hour  to  the  MS. 
Florence  tried  to  look  at  some  beautiful  prints  which  he 
had  kindly  placed  before  her;  but  a  mist  was  before  hei 
eyes,  she  could  not  trace  a  figure. 

"You  are  right,"  he  said  at  length;  "this  is  no  com- 
mon work.  There  is  decided  genius,  not  alone  in  the 
poems,  but  m  the  illastrations  ;  still,  in  the  i;resent  state 
of  literature,  even  real  genius  has  much  to  contend  with. 
Can  you  call  again  in  a  few  days  ?  Be  assured,"  he  added, 
kindly,  "  I  do  not  give  you  that  trouble  because  I  will  not 
say  No  at  once.  I  wish  to  think  how  I  can  best  serve 
your  brother,  and  to  do  so  requires  a  little  time." 

"VYith  every  limb  trembling,  every  accent  of  her  voice 
quivering,  Florence  poured  forth  her  acknowledgments, 
and  assuring  him  the  trouble  was  nothing,  the  following 
Saturday  was  the  day  fixed.  The  intervening  time  seemed 
long,  for  Florence  breathed  to  none  the  hope  that  would 
arise  in  her  own  breast.  When  she  again  sought  Mr 
Morton  he  told  her  that  iiis  opinion  of  her  brother's  genius 
nad  increased  with  every  page  he  read  ;  that  there  was 
not  ihe  smallest  doubt  as  to  its  ultimate  success.  He  can- 
didl)  stated  that  the  volume  was  intrinsically  worth  much 
more  than  lie  could  well  afford  to  pay,  and  he  thought  it 
would  be  bcbtei  for  the  author  to  incur  a  little  risk  at  first 
than  do  himseLf  such  injustice  as  to  part  with  the  copy- 
right. To  biiiig  the  work  out  as  its  merits  demanded 
would  cost  one  iiundred  and  fifty  pounds.  He  himself 
would  risk  the  hundred,  it  Mr.  Leslie  would  risk  the  fifty 
pounds  ,  the  profits  of  tiie  first  edition  should  be  equally 
divided  between  them. 

We  will  not  linger  on  the  tniotlon  of  poor  Florence  at 
this  generous  ofier  Morton,  indeed,  needed  little  in  reply  ; 
his  benevolent  nature  was  more  graLified  by  her  simple  yet 
heartfelt  acknowledgments  than  hj  the  most  eloquent 
words.  He  would  call  on  her  brothci,  he  said,  that  theil 
agreement  might  he  fixed  in  black  ana  white,  smiling  at 


136  woman's     FKIENDSITir. 

her  observation  that  surely  such  a  step  could  not  he  necea- 
sary. 

"  We  men  of  husmess  must  have  somethmg  more  pal- 
pable than  honor,  my  young  friend ;  besides  I  Avish  to 
knoAV  this  glorious  minded  fellow.  You  tell  rne  he  is  ill, 
so  ill  that  he  cannot  leave  his  couch.  What  ia  the  matter 
with  him  ?"  Florence's  voice  quivered  painfully  as  she 
replied,  but  Mr.  Morton's  evident  sympathy  led  her  not 
only  to  relate  Walter's  sufTerings,  but  her  o^m.  secret  and 
long  entertained  wish,  that  he  should  have  better  medical 
advice.  A  gentleman  had  entered  some  Hitle  time  before, 
and  perceiving  Morton  was  engaged,  harl  begged  him  to 
continue  his  business  "with  the  young  lady ;  and,  appa- 
rently on  very  intimate  terms  with  the  fiimily,  threw  him- 
self on  an  easy  chair  and  took  up  a  book,  t^  wklt.li,  however, 
he  did  not  give  much  attention. 

"  And  this  young  man  is  a  poet,  and  by  your  account, 
Morton,  no  common  one.  I  am  sorry  for  it,"  was  the 
quaint  observation  which  recalled  his  presence  ;  and  Flo- 
rence timidly  looked  the  question,  "  Why  ?" 

"  Because,  young  lady,  too  often  the  mind  wears  out 
the  frame.  The  physician's  skill  is  less  effectual  with  poets 
than  with  any  other  race  ;  they  are  like  the  pelican  feed- 
ing their  offspring  with  their  own  blood,  and  are  then  sur- 
prised that  Ave  can  do  nothing  for  them." 

"  Perhaps  you  will  go  with  me.  Sir  Charles,  and  see  if 
this  young  poet  be  as  Avilful  as  others  of  liis  craft,"  re- 
joined Mr.  Morton,  knowing  well  the  character  of  his 
visiter,  and  encouraged  by  his  nod  of  assent. 

Florence  listened  bewildered ;  she  could  scarcely  be- 
lieve that  her  wildest  wishes  might  be  realized,  and  that 
the  object  of  her  secret  longings,  the  great  physician,  who, 
she  almost  believed,  had,  under  Providence,  power  to  avert 
death  itself,  would  indeed  visit  her  brother,  and  might 
perhaps  restore  him  to  health,  as  he  had  so  mercifully  been 
permitted  to  restore  others  :  and  Mr.  Morton  had  led  hei 
down  stairs,  had  advised  her  not  to  tell  her  brother  that  a 
physician  would  accompany  him,  fearing  to  excite  him,  and 
had  parted  from  her  with  the  greatest  kindness,  ere  she 
could  collect  her  scattered  thoughts  sufficiently  to  arrange 
xnd  defuie  them. 


woman's  friendship.  137 

CHAPTER  XXm. 

THE    CROSS   AND   CHAIN. — IS   THERE    NO   HOPE? 

It  so  happened  that,  just  at  this  time,  Mrs.  LesHe  was 
Btaying  with  a  very  aged  relation  in  the  country ;  and,  for 
one  reason,  Florence  rejoiced  that  she  was  absent.  As 
soon  as  collected  thought  returned,  she  began  to  consider 
how  the  necessary  fifty  pounds  could  be  raised  with  the 
least  inconvenience,  and  without  calling  on  her  mother. 
She  recollected  that,  from  teaching  and  work,  she  and 
Minie  had  laid  aside  fifteen  pounds  for  chance  demands — 
debts  they  had  none — and  they  expected  in  a  few  days  a 
good  price  for  some  delicate  fancy  work ;  still  this  would 
not  make  up  half  the  sum.  The  only  valuable  trinkets 
she  possessed  were  Lady  St.  Maur's  gifts,  the  cross  and 
chain,  the  emeralds  in  which,  she  had  often  been  told, 
were  exceedingly  rare  and  valuable  ;  but  how  could  she 
part  vnth  them  ? 

She  saw,  after  his  first  feelings  of  delight,  that  "VYalter 
though  he  said  nothing,  shrunk  painfully  from  the  idea 
that  it  might  be  months  before  the  small  sum  required  from 
him  could  be  paid.  Had  he  been  in  health,  and  so  enabled 
to  work  himself,  these  thoughts  would  have  had  no  power  ; 
but  with  all  the  torturing  weakness  of  disease  they  haunted 
him  night  and  day. '  Florence  saw  this,  and  acted  accord 
ingly. 

About  a  week  after  this  arrangement  with  Mr.  Morton, 
and  before  he  called,  she  placed  a  pocket-book  containing 
banli-notes  to  the  specified  amount  m  her  brother's  haniis. 

"  Florence  !"  he  exclaimed,  starting  up,  the  languor  of 
sufiering  for  the  moment  banished.  "  Florence,  dearest  I 
how  have  you  done  this  ?  Oh  !  do  not  tell  me  you  have 
sacrificed  aught  of  comfort  or  of  personal  necessities — weak, 
selfish,  tormenting  as  disease  has  made  me,  I  could  not 
bear  such  a  thought — how  have  you  obtained  this  ?" 

*'  Suppose  I  refuse  to  tell  you,  "Walter  ;  I  think  I  have 
some  right  to  enjoy  my  secret ;  will  you  bo  satisfied  if  1 

12* 


135  woaian's   Fr.iENDsniP. 

solemnly  assure  you  I  have  sacrificed   nothing  that  was 
either  of  use  or  comfort  ?  some  useless  trinkets — " 

"  Trinkets  I  useless  trinkets !  Ah,  Florence,  dearest,  how 
can  I  bear  the  thought  that  you  have  parted  with  your 
few  valuables  for  me  I" 

"  You  shall  give  me  handsomer,  Walter ;  I  shall  expect 
a  casket  of  gems  from  the  earnings  of  your  first  brilliant 
Buccessful  work  ;  what  need  of  them  have  I  now  ?  When 
yon  raise  me  to  a  higher  grade,  where  ornaments  are  worn, 
yoif  shall  return  them  to  me." 

She  spoke  with  a  smile  so  fond,  that  her  brother  guessed 
not  ho-iv,  in  parting  with  her  only  jewel  of  value,  she  felt 
as  if  even  memory  had  become  as  powerless  as  hope,  and 
every  link  between  the  past  and  present  snapped  forever. 

"  My  work  may  give  you  them,  my  darling  sister,  but  not 
"Walter,"  he  answered  faintly;  "I  shall  have  gone  to  my 
long  home  ere  these  things  may  be." 

"  Oh,  do  not,  do  not  say  so,  Walter  ;  the  reviving  spring 
will  soon  be  here,  and  reheved  as  your  mind  is  of  this  en- 
grossing wish — oh,  you  will  live — you  will  be  spared  to 
bless  us  all." 

He  shook  his  head  mournfully,  but  kissed  her  fondly,  and 
changed  the  subject. 

In  a  few  days  Mr.  Morton  and  his  friend  came.  The 
flush  of  excitement  burned  on  Walter's  cheek  ;  his  thin 
hand  so  trembled,  he  could  hardly  sign  his  name,  and  the 
perspiration  streamed  with  the  effort  from  his  forehead. 
Florence  had  lingered  to  try  to  read  Sir  Charles's  opinion 
on  his  countenance  ;  but  it  would  not  change,  and,  unable 
to  bear  the  deadly  faintness  of  suspense,  she  glided 
from  the  apartment,  satisfied  that  Minie  would  supply  her 
place 

"  You  are  really  premature,  my  good  friend,"  Mi 
Morton  said,  as  after  a  lengthened  conversation  full  of  the 
deepest  interest  and  comfort  to  Walter,  he  gave  the  pocket 
book,  and  Morton  looked  on  its  contents  with  surprise 
"  There  would  have  been  time  enough  for  this,  when  the 
book  was  in  print,  and  circulating.  You  had  better  keep 
this  money  for  little  luxuries  which  an  invalid  like  yourseli 
must  need." 

Walter  paused  a  moment,  then  saying,  "  Minie,  dear,  J 


woman's  friendship.  139 

wish  you  would  look  in  my  room  for  the  book  I  wanted 
to  show  Mr.  Morton.  Florence  will  tell  you  wl>ere  it  is." 
He  waited  till  she  left  the  room,  then  laying  his  hand  on 
Mr.  Morton's  arm,  said  impressively — "  Mr.  Morton,  that 
hour  I  shall  never  see  ;  let  me,  then,  have  the  happiness, 
the  relief  of  feehng  that  I  die  leaving  no  debt  as  a 
burden  on  my  poor  family  ;  do  not  refuse  it.  My  own,  in 
truth,  it  is  not,  for  my  devoted  sisters  have  compelled  me 
to  accept  it  for  this  purpose,  simply  to  reheve  my  mind  of 
the  load  that  weighed  upon  it  :  take  it,  and  I  shall  feel 
that  I  have  not  an  individual  care.  Your  assurance,  that 
in  time  it  must  succeed,  removes  all  fear  for  my  sisters  ; 
their  generous  love  will  be  repaid." 

Much  affected,  Morton  pressed  his  hand,  and  entreated 
him  to  set  his  mind  at  rest,  and  not  to  dwell  on  such 
gloomy  fancies — he  was  sure  they  had  no  foundation.  If 
Florence  had  still  been  in  the  room,  she  would  not  have 
watched  Sir  Charles's  expressive  countenance  in  vain  ;  a 
mournful  interest  first  removed  the  unimpassioned  calm  ; 
then  strong  emotion,  and  finally  he  rose  from  his  seat  and 
strode  to  the  window.  Recalled  by  Morton's  question  if 
he  could  not  prescribe  for  Mr.  Leslie,  to  prevent  such  a 
constant  recurrence  of  excitement  ;  he  asked  no  question, 
but  hastily  wrote  a  prescription,  saying  as  he  did  so 

"  This  will  calm,  I  wish  I  could  say  cure,  young  man  ; 
change  your  ardent  temperament,  your  throbbing  bTain, 
for  the  matter  of  fact,  the  unimpassioned,  and  health 
may  return." 

"  Change  !"  responded  Walter,  clasping  his  hands  with 
strong  emotion — "  change  ! — become  like  the  crowd — 'Vne 
hireling  herd — that  know  no  emotion  but  interest,  no  love 
but  for  gold — ^with  no  vision  of  beauty,  of  truth,  of  good  I 
No,  no  ;  better  twenty  years  of  suffering  body  with 
mental  joy,  than  seventy  of  such  health  and  such  ex- 
istence.    I  would  not  change  I" 

But  though  Florence  could  not  summon  sufficient 
courage  to  remain  while  the  interview  lasted,  suspense 
became  so  intolerable  that  she  felt  ^  as  if  the  most  dreaded 
reality  could  be  better  borne.  Hardly  knowing  her  own 
intentions,  she  waited  in  a  little  sitting-room  below,  till 
they  descended;   then  springing  forward,  she  caught  hold 


140  .VOMAN    S     FRIENDSHIP. 

of  Sir  Charles's  hand,  and  looked  up  in  his  face  willi 
cheeks  and  lips  perfectly  blanched,  and  every  effort  to 
speak  died  away  in  indistinct  murmurs.  Only  too  well 
accustomed  to  such  painful  scenes,  the  physician  gently 
led  her  within  the  parlor  and  closed  the  door  ;  the  action 
recalled  voice,  and  she  gasped  forth — 

"  Oh !  is  there  not  hope  ?  will  you  not  save  him  ?  Tell 
me  he  will  not  die  !" 

"  My  good  young  lady,  life  and  death  are  not  in  the 
hands  of  man  ;  yet  it  were  cruel,  unwisely  cruel,  to  give 
you  hope.  Your  brother's  mind  has  beeii  his  poison — I 
dare  not  tell  you — he  may  live." 

"  But  he  will  linger — he  may  he  spared  us  many  years 
yet,"  persisted  Florence,  in  the  wild  accents  of  one  deter- 
mined against  belief.     "  It  cannot  be  that  he  will  go  now — 

so  young — so but  forgive  me,"  she  added,  when  the 

hysterical  sobs  gave  way,  "tell  me,  I  am  better  now — I 
can  bear  it — I  ought  to  know,  for  my  poor  mother's  sake, 
how  long  we  may  call  him  ours  ?" 

The  reply  was  given  kindly  and  carefully  ;  but  what 
language,  what  gentleness  may  soften  the  bitter  anguish 
of  such  words  ?  Florence  heard,  and  yet  she  sank  not. 
She  bade  farewell  to  those  kind  friends  ;  she  saw  them  go, 
but  still  she  stood  as  if  thought,  sense,  life  itself  were 
frozen ;  and  then  she  rushed  up  the  stairs  into  her  own 
roonz,  secured  the  door,  and  sinkmg  on  her  knees,  buried 
her  face  in  the  bed-clothes,  and  her  slight  frame  shook 
Deneatii  its  agony 

Another  hour,  and  th?..t  suffering  girl  was  seated  by  her 
brother's  couch,  holding  his  hand  in  hers,  and  with  a 
maible  cheek,  but  faint  sweet  smile,  listening  to  and  sym- 
pathising in  his  lovely  dreams  of  fame.  And  such  is 
woman, — her  tears  are  with  her  God,  her  smile  with 
man  ;  the  heart  may  break,  and  who  shall  know  it  ? 

Mr.  Morton  had  suggested  a  frontispiece  as  an  improve- 
ment to  his  book,  and  Walter's  every  energy  now  turned 
to  the  composition  of  a  picture  from  which  the  print  might 
be  engraven.  He  had  resolved  not  to  put  hi?  name  to 
the  pubUcation,  and  therefore  felt  that  a  gi'oup  entitled 
"  The  Poet's  Home,"  couLi  convey  no  identity ;  and  he 
commenced    his    task    with    an    ardor    and    enjoyment 


woman's    FE.IENDSHIP.  141 

ti&jngely  at  variance  with  the  prostrating  languor  of  disease. 
VYha  that  has  watched  the  workings  of  the  mind  and  spirit, 
as  tht;  human  frame  decays,  can  doubt  our  immortahty  ? 
How  can  the  awlui  creed  of  materialism  exist  with  the 
view  or  that  Dright  hght  of  mind  shining  purer  and  brighter, 
with  every  hour  that  brings  death  nearer  ?  Life  inay  afford 
matter  lor  the  skeptic  and  the  materialist  to  weave  their 
fearful  tlieories  upon,  though  we  know  not  how  it  can  ;  but 
let  such  look  on  the  approach  of  sure  yet  lingering  death, 
and  how  will  tliey  retain  them  then  ? 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE   poet's   home. — ^HE    DIES. 

"  News  I  joyful  news,  Florence,  I  am  so  glad  that  you 
have  come  at  length,"  was  Minie  Leslie's  gleesome  greeting 
to  her  sister,  on  her  return  from  her  daily  duty  about  the 
middle  of  the  month  of  April.  "How  tired  you  look!  I 
do  wish  you  would  let  me  go  for  you  sometimes  ;"  and  she 
insisted  on  removing  Florence's  bonnet  and  shawl,  and 
forced  her  to  sit  down.  Florence  was  indeed  weary  and 
dispirited,  weighed  down  by  the  thought  that  every  morn- 
ing she  left  home  might  be  her  last  to  look  on  her  brother. 
How  little  did  her  employers  know  the  burden  that  she  bore, 
looking  on  her  as  an  inanimate,  harmless  girl,  well  suited 
for  her  daily  toil,  and  nothing  more  I  But  weary  as  she 
was,  she  met  Minie' s  fond  kiss  with  one  as  fond,  and  a  smile 
as  sweet. 

"  And  what  is  this  joyous  news,  Minie,  dear  ?  Do  not 
play  with  my  curiosity  too  long.  ' 

"  Listen,  Flory,  you  shall  have  it  in  all  the  pompous  lan- 
guage of  the  aristocratic  Morning  Post,"  and  taking  up  the 
paper,  she  read  in  mock  heroic  tones — 

"  We  are  truly  rejoiced  to  state  that  the  Rt.  Hon 
Edmund  Baron  St,  Maur,  and  his  beautiful  and  accom- 
plished lady,  with  their  suite,  are  confidently  expected  to 
arrive  in  England  the  first  week  in  May  :  the  noble  Lord's 
health,    we    understand,    is     so     perfectly    re-estabhshed, 


142  WOMAN    S    FRIENDSHIP 

tbat  no  danger  is  apprehended  from  his  permanent  resi- 
dence in  his  native  coimtry.  We  have  heard  it  whispered 
that  for  his  beneficial  exertions  in  the  courts  of  Italy  and 
Paris,  and  other  diplomatic  services,  an  Earldom  will  be 
granted  him,  a  dignity  seldom  so  well  deserved.  For  hia 
lady  we  have  only  to  state,  that  the  extraordinary  beauty 
of  the  Lady  Ida  Vilhers  has  net  yet  faded  from  the  minda 
of  her  countiymen,  and  that  the  united  testimony  of  the 
Italian  and  French  Courts  would  inform  us,  if  she  have  lost 
the  charms  of  girlhood,  she  has  acquired  others  more 
dazzling  still." 

"  Now,  I  should  very  much  like  to  know  who  put  that 
puffin.  How  Lady  St.  Maur  would  laugh  at  it  herself! 
But  is  it  not  delightful  she  is  commg  home  ?" 

Florence  did  not  answer,  she  was  leaning  over  her  bro- 
ther a  couch,  and  thinking  ;  oh,  what  a  bright  stream  of 
thought  came  leaping  and  sparkling  over  her  mind,  carrying 
it  back  with  the  visions  it  brought.  She  felt  her  brother's 
arm  thrown  round  her,  and  that  simple  action  deprived  her 
of  all  self-control ;  her  head  smik  on  his  bosom,  and  she 
burst  into  tears. 

Minie  was  bewildered,  her  simple  guilelessness  could  not 
enter  into  her  sister's  feelings,  nor  did  Mrs.  Leslie's  gentle 
explanation  succeed  in  convincing  her  that  any  thing  like 
loss  of  fortune  and  a  lower  station  could  or  ought  to  affect 
friendship.  In  vain  were  all  her  mother's  representa- 
tions of  the  customs  of  society  ;  its  convenances,  w^e  should 
say,  if  a  French  word  may  be  permitted.  She  pe-sistea 
that  in  this  case  they  had  no  weight,  and  ended  by  de- 
claring, tha^  if  she  were  mistaken,  and  Lady  St.  Maur  made 
no  exertion  to  renew  her  kindness,  she  would  take  care  how 
sne  loved  or  trusted  beyond  the  hallowed  circle  of  her  own 
home. 

Walter  continued  to  work  at  his  cherished  picture  as 
perseveringly  as  his  waning  strength  allowed.  It  repre- 
sented the  interior  of  a  cottage  room  well  remembered  by 
Florence,  as  that  of  her  dearly  loved  home  in  Devonshire  . 
a  glow  as  from  a  brilJiantly  setting  sun,  streamed  through 
the  large  French  window  which  opened  on  a  view  of  liill 
and  wood,  and  distant  ocean  ;  a  couch  the  draperies  ol 
which  well   harmonized  with  the  liirhts  and  stadows  oJ 


woman's   friendship  143 

the  "back  ground,  stood  as  drawn  forward,  that  the  breeze 
of  evening  might  play  upon  its  occupant,  in  whose  languid 
frame,  and  attenuated,  but  most  striking  features,  Walter 
had  thrown  the  characteristic  likeness  of  himself:  close 
at  his  side,  employed  in  arranging  flowers  in  a  vase  upon 
a  table  near  them,  he  had  placed  Florence  ;  near  them,  on 
her  own  arm-chair,  with  one  hand  laid  fondly  on  the  rich 
golden  hair  of  her  younger  girl,  was  his  mother — a  beau- 
tiful likeness-^for  the  son  knew  so  well  the  character  ol 
his  mother,  no  marvel  the  artist  could  not  fail.  Minie'a 
guitar  was  in  her  lap,  one  hand  carelessly  sweeping  its 
strings,  while  her  head  was  thrown  back,  and  her  beaming 
countenance  looked  up  in  her  mother's  face  with  her  own 
arch  mischief-loving  smile.  The  pencil  of  the  artist 
luigered  on  these  lovely  forms,  as  if  each  day  that  whis- 
pered his  owii  departure  nearer,  bound  them  closer  to  his 
heart,  and  he  sought  indelibly  to  join  his  form  and  face 
with  theirs,  leaving  them  one  fond  enduring  trace  ere  he 
passed  away  for  ever. 

May  camo  with  her  sweet  flowers  and  reviving  breath  ; 
even  the  environs  of  the  huge  metropohs  looked  smiling 
in  summer,  and  the  air  came  heated  with  one  flood  of 
warmth  and  light  from  the  cloudless  sun.  The  season 
was  unusually  hot,  and  Florence,  almost  to  her  surprise, 
felt  her  daily  walks  far  more  wearisome  and  exhausting 
than  they  had  been  in  the  winter.  "With  the  heat,  Walter's 
feverish  restlessness  increased,  often  bringing  temporary 
delmum  ;  but  his  fancies  even  then  were  full  of  poetry, 
and  love,  and  hope  ;  and  in  those  hours  of  suffering,  the 
presence  of  Florence  seemed  so  to  soothe  him  that  even 
when  his  fancy  v/andered,  he  was  still  conscious  of  her 
presence.  It  was  not  very  remarkable  th^t  her  health 
began  visibly  to  fail,  though  so  great  was  her  meek  en- 
durance, her  silent  energy,  that  still  uncomplaining  she 
struggled  on,  only  prayuig  that  while  Walter  needed  her 
care  she  might  not  fail. 

And  those  nights,  though  exhausting  to  the  frame,  were 
often  thrice  blessed  in  their  communings  with  a  spirit  so 
soon  about  to  seek  that  blissful  bourne  from  whence  no 
traveller  returns  ;  when  not  disabled  by  fever,  his  converse 
was  all  of  heaven,  as  if  its  glory  and  its  blessedness  were 


M^i  woman's   friendship. 

already  fully  revealed,  and  as  she  listened  to  him,  Florence 
felt  as  if  those  words  were  inspired  to  be  her  comfort 
hereafter. 

"  There  was  a  time  I  feared  to  die  for  your  sakes,  my 
beloved  ones,"  he  said,  in  a  one  of  these  commmiings  ;  "  but 
my  God  hath  been  so  merciful,  my  Florence.  His  spirit 
hath  come  to  remove  these  doubts,  and  lead  me  to  put  my 
whole  trust  in  Him,  who  my  mother  first  taught  me  would 
provide.  Oh  !  what  a  blessing  has  her  religion  been  to 
me  in  this  trial !  Tell  her  this  when  I  am  gone  ;  she 
cannot  bear  it  now,  but  it  will  soothe  her  then  ;  tell  her 
the  prayers  she  taught  my  infant  lips  return,  when  fever 
prevents  all  other,  and  I  know  that  they  are  heard,  they 
bring  such  peace." 

*'  And  have  you  no  wish,  my  "Walter  ?" 

**  I  have  no  eartlily  wish,  my  Florence ;  my  soul  de- 
parts, my  frame  will  crumble  to  its  parent  dust,  but  the 
aspirations  of  mind  remain  ;  my  longing  for  the  good,  the 
beautiful,  the  infinite,  will  all  be  filled  in  heaven  ;  p.nd  I 
have  no  wish,  save  to  linger  till  my  last  fond  task  is  done, 
and  perhaps  another — but  it  is  such  folly — " 

"  Tell  it  me,  dear  Walter." 

"  Let  them  lay  me  where  grass  and  flowers  may  grow 
above  me,  Florence  ;  do  not  let  them  cover  my  grave  with 
the  cold  flag-stones  that  mark  the  city  tombs — 'tis  an  idle 
wish,  yet  it  haunts  me.  I  would  rather  that  children's 
feet  should  press  the  turf,  and  tiny  hands  pluck  the  flowers, 
than  stony  walls  surround  me  ;  and  let  them  stamp  upon 
the  head-stone  simple  words,  no  labored  epitaph,  only 
that  I  felt  my  father  loved  me,  and  so  he  called  me  to  his 
throne." 

And  Florence  promised  ;  and  though  her  heart  was  full 
of  tears,  she  could  not  weep.  Many  scenes  of  life  are 
holy — the  early  morn,  the  twilight  hour,  the  starry  night, 
the  rolling  storm,  the  hymn  of  thousands  from  the  sacred 
fane,  the  marriage  rite,  or  funeral  dirge  ;  but  none  more 
holy  than  the  chamber  of  the  dying,  lingering  beside  a 
departing  spirit,  seeming  as  if  already  the  angel  shone 
above  the  mortal,  waiting  but  the  eternal  summons  to 
wing  his  flight  on  high. 

One  evening  Walter's  couch  had  been  drawn  near  the 


\VOMAN*S    FRIENDSHIP.  1  i5 

open  casement,  whicli  looked  into  the  garden  at  the  hack 
of  the  house ;  and  even  the  dusty  green  and  scentless 
flowers,  peculiar  to  the  environs  of  London,  were  grateful 
to  the  poet.  He  was  propped  up  with  pillows,  and  his 
hand  was  yet  busy  on  the  canvas,  giving  the  last  touches 
to  his  picture. 

All  was  completed  but  the  figure  of  Minie,  who  was 
sitting  in  the  required  attitude  ;  but  it  was  well  he  had 
not  waited  till  that  moment  to  give  the  joyous  expression 
he  so  much  loved. 

An  hour  passed,  and  no  movement,  no  sound  disturbed 
that  little  party :  the  hand  of  the  artist  moved  languidly, 
but  still  it  moved,  and  the  concluding  touches  started  mto 
life  beneath  it.  Sometimes  his  eyes  would  close,  and  then 
after  a  brief  interval  of  rest,  re-open  to  look  upon  his  task. 

Florence  had  not  yet  returned,  having  gone  out  of  her 
way  to  purchase  some  fresh  flowers,  as  was  her  custom 
every  third  day,  in  spite  of  Walter's  remonstrances  :  the 
mtense  delight  which  they  always  gave  him  was  too 
visible  to  permit  any  cessation  of  the  indulgence :  that 
she  deprived  herself  of  many  little  necessaries,  and,  ex- 
hausted and  weary,  never  rode  to  her  pupils,  that  she 
might  save  to  purchase  luxuries  for  him,  he  never  knew. 
She  often  recalled  Emily  Melford's  horror  of  exertion,  and 
half  smiled  at  the  widely  difierent  meanings  that  word 
bore  in  their  respectivd  vocabularies  :  but  a  bitter  feeling 
mingled  with  the  smile  at  her  o^vn  creduhty  in  Emily's 
profession  of  interest  and  regard  ;  from  the  day  she  had 
sought  her  to  the  present  moment,  a  full  year,  she  had 
rested  as  silent  and  indifferent  as  before. 

As  Florence  came  within  sight  of  the  bay  windows  of 
her  house,  she  fancied  that  she  could  distinguish  the  figure 
of  "Walter,  looking  down  the  road,  as  if  watching  her  re- 
turn. She  was  surprised,  because,  since  his  increasing 
iUness,  they  had  changed  their  apartment  from  the  front 
to  the  back  sitting-room,  in  order  to  give  him  more  quiet 
and  fresh  air  than  the  dusty  road  afforded.  What  he 
could  be  doing  there  she  could  not  conceive,  for  even  if 
he  were  anxious  for  her  return  and  wished  to  watch  for 
her,  he  surely  had  not  sufficient  strength  to  walk  from  one 
room  to  another,  and  there  remain  standing  §q  that  she 

13 


146  woman's   friendship. 

could  (listin^iish  his  full  figure.  Hope  flashed  on  her  heart 
that  lie  was  better.  Some  extraordinary  change  must  have 
taken  place,  and  he  might  yet  live  I  Oh,  what  a  sudden 
thrill  came  with  that  fond  thought  I  and  she  hurried,  almost 
ran  the  intervening  space.  Breathless  she  entered  the 
house,  and  sprang  up  the  staircase. 

"  AATiat,  settled  again  so  soon  at  your  drawing,  dearest 
Walter,  and  only  a  minute  ago  I  saw  you  beckoning  me 
from  the  next  room — how  could  you  stand  there  so  long?" 

Mrs.  Leslie  put  her  finger  on  her  lips — '*  You  have  l.t.«n 
strangely  deceived,  my  love,  Walter  has  not  quitted  this 
room  nor  this  posture  for  some  hours.  Come  softly,  I  thmk 
he  sleeps." 

No  word,  no  cry  passed  the  lips  of  Florence,  although 
a  pang,  sharp  as  if  every  drop  of  blood  were  turned  to  ice, 
curdled  through  her  frame.  She  knew  she  was  not  de- 
ceived. As  surely  as  she  now  looked  on  him,  she  felt  she 
had  seen  him  smile,  as  if  to  bid  her  hasten  home,  not  ten 
minutes  before,  and  with  a  fleet  and  noiseless  step  she  stood 
beside  him.  The  pencil  was  still  within  his  hand,  but  it 
moved  no  longer  on  the  canvas — the  eyes  were  closed,  the 
lips  were  parted  :  she  bent  dowTi  her  head  and  pressed  her 
lips  upon  his  brow — it  was  marbly  cold. 

'*  Walter  I"  she  shrieked,  for  in  that  dread  moment  she 
knew  not  what  she  did.  "  Walter — my  brother — speak  to 
me — look  on  me  again  I" 

For  a  moment  she  stood  as  if  waiting  for  the  look,  the 
voice  she  called  ;  then,  pressing  her  hands  wildly  to  her 
brow,  sought  to  collect  thought,  energy,  control,  for  her 
poor  mother's  sake — but  all,  all  failed — and  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life,  she  sunk  down  in  a  deep  and  deathlilce 
swoon. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE   RETURN   TO  ENGLAND. — A  HAPPY   WIFE. — THE   FAMILT 
MEETING. 

That  same  evening,  nay  the  same  hour,  which  shooli 
from   its   mourning  pinions  such   heavy   sor''        on   that 


woman's  friendship.  147 

lowly  home,  came  radiant  with  sunshine  and  glee,  and  the 
voice  of  mirth  and  song  and  welcome,  to  Loid  Edgemere's 
stately  mansion  in  St.  James's. 

Lord  and  Lady  St.  Maur  had  that  day  arrived  in  Eng- 
land, and  Lord  Edgemere,  with  his  usual  hospitality,  had 
invited  every  relative  or  coimection  on  either  side,  to  give 
them  welcome.  There  were  very  many  to  whom  Lord 
and  Lady  St.  Maur  had  to  be  introduced,  for  hirths  and 
marriages  had  multiplied  the  circle  ;  nor  were  their  own 
three  lovely  children  less  objects  of  attraction  than  them- 
selves. 

Surely  if  there  be  real  joy  on  earth,  it  is  found  in  the 
hour  of  meetmg — alloy,  indeed,  it  must  have,  fcr  few  are 
the  hearts  on  whom  five  years  may  pass  and  leave  no 
trace ;  but  to  Lady  St.  Maur  it  was  perfect  as  earth  can 
make  it.  She  had  left  England  anxious  and  sorrowing ; 
not  knowing  even  if  the  beloved  one,  to  whom  she  had 
pledged  her  maiden  heart,  might  even  then  be  spared  to 
claim  her  as  his  own. 

She  returned  a  happy,  wife,  a  doting  mother — not  a 
death  had  snatched  away  one  whom  she  had  left  behind, 
and  the  hour  of  meeting  was  not  one  to  call  up  the  cold 
doubt  and  dark  mistrust  as  to  the  permanence  and  truth  of 
the  professions  which  it  elicited.  Single-hearted,  truthful, 
the  very  child  of  nature  herself,  Lady  St.  Maur  felt  only 
happiness,  rejoicing  in  seeing  again  around  Her  familiar 
faces,  and  yet  more  familiar  things.  The  very  pride,  the 
very  coldness  for  which  she  had  been  so  often  blamed, 
when  her  engagement  had  been  the  theme  of  every 
tongue,  were  now  no  longer  visible  ;  and  some  there  were 
who  could  scarcely  have  recognised  in  the  Baroness  St. 
Maur  the  Lady  Ida  Villiers  of  former  years. 

"So,  I  am  to  be  one  of  the  family,  though  claiming 
not  the  tenth  part  of  a  Scotch  cousinship  with  any  one 
here  present,"  was  the  bluff  greeting  of  Sir  Charles 
Brashleigh,  as  he  entered.  "  Lord  Edgemere,  you  are 
always  kind,  but  to-night  kinder  than  ever.  Where's 
the  rebel  whom  I  exiled  five  years  ago  ?  Baron  St.  Maur, 
stand  forth  !  Hey,  what,  do  you  mean  to  impose  yourseli 
on  me  for  my  patient,  young  man  ?  Pshaw  !  you  are  in 
far  too       id  condition  for  me  to  claim  acquaintance  v^dth 


148  woman's  friendship. 

you,"  lie  continued,  laughing,  as  Lord  St.  Maur.  his 
mother,  and  wife  hastened  from  their  respective  circlea 
and  crowded  round  him. 

*'  Indeed,  Sir  Charles,  instead  of  rehellious,  I  claim  a 
reward  for  submission,  patience,  and  a  whole  host  of  saintly 
virtues,"  was  the  joyous  reply.  "  Here  have  I  been  per- 
fectly well  for  three  full  years,  and  yet  in  simple  obedience 
to  your  command,  remained  in  Italy,  when  my  whole  heart 
was  in  my  own  country." 

"  Ida  is  extremely  obliged  to  you,  Edmund,"  mis- 
chievously interposed  Alfred  Melford.  "  So  much  so,"  said 
Lady  Ida,  "  that  I  will  expose  him.  Sir  Charles,  give 
him  no  particle  of  credit  for  obedience  ;  ne  has  been  quite 
as  impatient,  and  rebellious,  and  disloyal  as  you  can  pos- 
sibly fancy  :  it  is  only  to  me  and  Lady  Helen  that  your 
praise  is  in  any  way  due," 

"  Is  it  so,  fair  lady  ?  Your  lord  does  look  somewhat 
guilty,  I  must  confess.  However,  as  he  has  brought  me 
back  some  pound  or  two  more  of  flesh,  and  a  proper 
shade  of  color,  we  will  be  merciful,  and  pronounce  that, 
voluntarily  or  not,  he  has  kept  the  term  of  exile  well. 
Lady  Helen,  Italy  has  been  the  elixir  of  life  to  you.  If 
I  want  to  grow  young,  I  will  go  there  too.  Lady  St. 
Maur,  by  the  way,  I  believe  six  or  seven  years  ago  you 
and  I  were  sworn  foes  ;  are  we  friends  now  ?  Now,  do 
not  look  so  prettily  bewildered  ;  there  was  a  time  when  a 
fair  girl  wanted  to  marry  a  dying  man,  and  sacrifice  her 
bloom  and  her  joy  in  nursing  him,  and  I,  like  a  monster 
of  cruelty,  placed  my  ban  upon  it,  and  under  Providence 
saved  both.  Am  I  forgiven  ?  I  do  not  think  we  ever 
shook  hands  at  parting." 

"  Now  I  will  return  good  for  evil.  Sir  Charles,  and  pray 
you  to  forgive  her,"  answered  her  husband  fondly,  as  Lady 
St.  Maur  placed  both  hands  in  those  of  Sir  Charles,  and 
looked  up  in  his  face  without  speaking,  save  through  her 
glistening  eyes. 

"  If  you  knew  how  often  she  has  repented  her  injustice, 
arid  spoken  of  your  skill,  as,  under  Heaven,  the  authoi 
of  her  joy." 

*'  There  then  is  the  kiss  of  peace,"  replied  Sir  Char!eSi 


woman's     FE.IENDSU1P.  149 

suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  and  bending  his  lips  to  her 
brow,  adding  joyously,  "You  are  a  happy  fellow,  Edmund  ! 
but  where  are  your  children  ?  Ah  I  Lady  Helen  is  bringing 
them.  How  strange  that  grandmammas  think  of  those 
things  more  tlian  mammas  I"  And  after  playfully  caressing 
them  he  continued,  "  Lady  St.  Maur,  as  your  husband 
left  his  heart  in  England,  though  you  were  by  his  side, 
has  the  dolce  far  niente,  of  Italy,  retained  any  part  o{ 
yours  ?" 

"  Not  the  lumdreth  part  of  a  particle.  Sir  Charles.  I 
have  been  too  happy  not  to  love  Italy  ;  but  give  me  Eng- 
land for  a  home." 

"  Well,  if  I  could  be  transported  to  Italy  without  any 
trouble,  its  dolce  far  niente  must  be  heaven  upon  earth." 
said  Emily  Melford,  so  gravely,  and  with  so  deep  a  sigh, 
as  to  cause  a  burst  of  laughter  round  her.  Sir  Charles 
Brashleigh  singled  her  out  on  the  instant,  and  greeted  her 
by  a  mock  heroic  bow. 

"The  honorable  Miss  Emily  Melford  absolutely  trans- 
planted from  the  blue  and  buff  cliahe  longue  of  Belgrave 
Square  !  Young  lady,  I  give  you  all  the  joy  you  will  take 
the  trouble  to  receive.  What  miracle  has  ^vrought  this 
change?" 

Lady  St.  Maur  looked  at  hkn,  surprised,  and  going  to 
the  sofa  where  her  cousin  sat.  put  her  arm  affectionately 
round  her. 

"Not  very  wonderful.  Sir  Charles,  considering  Emily 
has  not  seen  me  so  long.  I  find  nothing  very  remarkable 
about  her  except " 

"  Except  that  she  is  looking  better  and  stouter  than 
when  you  left,"  interrupted  the  physician  slyly. 

"  Sir  Charles,  good  looks  are  not  ahvays  the  criterion  of 
good  health,"  answered  Emily,  pettishly.  "  That  you  do 
not  consider  me  worthy  of  your  attention,  is  no  proof  I  do 
not  require  medical  care — you  \sill  do  nothing  for  me." 

"  Because  my  good  young  lady,  you  can  do  more  for 
yourself,  and  I  never  take  fees  where  I  cannot  cure.  As 
for  the  dolce  far  niente  of  Italy,  you  need  npt  gp  ?o  far  to 
find  it,  for  I  rather  beUeve  it  is  discoverable  m  »  ft^^A^u 
boudoir  in  Belgrave-square." 

13* 


150  woman's  friendship. 

"  Emily,  how  can  you  let  Sir  Charles  laugh  at  you  in 
this  manner?"  exclaimed  her  brother;  "I  would  rather 
go  work  six  hours  in  every  twelve." 

"  Do  you  not  know,  Frederick,  Emily  is  proverbially 
good  natured,  and  would  not  interrupt  any  tody's  amuse- 
oent,  even  at  her  own  expense  ?" 

"  You  should  rather  admire  than  blame  me,  Mary  '' 

"  So  I  do,  my  dear  I  I  like  everybody  to  be  happy  in 
their  own  way." 

*'  Happy  I  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  I  sua  happy, 
Mary?" 

"  Indeed,  I  know  no  person  who  ought  to  be  hippier 
than  yourself,  Emily.  My  dear  Ida,  you  look  as  if  you 
did  not  understand  this  at  all — you  will  learn  all  in  time." 

"  I  hope  I  shall,  Mary,"  she  replied,  laughing  ;  "  but 
what  is  the  matter  with  Emily,  and  why  is  she  the  uni- 
vers.il  object  of  attack?" 

"  Because  nobody  chooses  to  believe  I  am  ill,  Ida;  but 
never  mind  me  for  the  present  I" 

Lady  St.  Maur  looked  earnestly  at  her  cousin ;  and 
that  look  recalled  former  years,  when,  in  spite  of  many 
follies,  Emily  would  have  shrunk  with  horror  from  the 
selhsliness,  the  indolence,  of  which  she  had  now  become 
the  unresisting  victim. 

"  A^liat  can  keep  Frank  Howard  so  late?"  observed 
Lord  Edgemei*e,  as  a  pause  in  the  conversation  around 
him  permitted  the  remark.  "  Henry,  did  you  tell  him  we 
expected  him  ?" 

His  son  replied  in  the  affirmative,  and  Lord  St.  Maur 
inquired — 

"  By  the  way,  Frank  is  in  the  house,  is  he  not  '^  Has 
he  distinguished  himself?" 

*  Truly,  yes ;  an  eloquent  impassioned  youngster,  I 
unaerstand,  who  carries  all  along  with  him." 

"  I  am  glad  of  it,  he  is  so  peculiarly  situated  from 
the  misanthropy  and  cold  selfishness  of  his  father,  that  I 
have  quite  felt  for  him.  It  is  hard  upon  a  young  man 
to  have  no  friend,  no  relative  interested  :'ai  his  public 
career." 

"  Friends,  St,  Maur  I  why  he  has  gained  as  many  as 
Lord  Glenvylle's  strange  conduct  lost." 


woman's    miENDSHIP.  151 

"  Is  Glenvylle  still  as  complete  a  cynic  as  he  was  in 
Paris  ?" 

"  If  possible,  more  so ;  he  seems  to  hold  converse  with 
none  but  his  steward,  except  when  he  takes  the  fancy  of 
holding  a  solemn  dinner,  which  defend  me  from  ever  at- 
tending again." 

"  And  can  any  one  explain  the  mystery  about  nim  ; 
who  was  he?" 

''•  In  his  youth,  I  believe,  merely  a  private  gentleman's 
son,  and  a  great  spendthrift,  squandering  money,  and  I 
fancy  reputation,  on  the  continent,  till  he  became  a  dis- 
grace to  his  name,  and  his  father  nearly  ruined  himself  in 
changing  it." 

*'  How.  does  he  treat  his  son,  kindly  ?" 

"  I  really  cannot  tell ;  but  I  fancy,  capriciously  ;  some- 
times a  father,  sometimes  a  tyrant,  according  to  his  mood. 
Frank  does  not  want  for  money,  or  any  of  the  appurte- 
nances of  his  station,  though  Glenvylle  is  mean  and  mi- 
serly to  himself,  and  as  for  uttering  one  word  regarding 
his  father,  except  in  terms  of  the  deepest  respect,  I  believe 
he  would  rather  die.  Where  Frank's  warmth  of  heart 
and  ingenuousness  sprang  from,  I  cannot  fancy." 

"  Perhaps  from  his  mother.     "Who  was  she  ?" 

"  One  of  the  Duke  of  Beaumont's  daughters ;  she  died 
soon  after  Frank's  birth.  People  have  whispered  of  a 
broken  heart,  from  discoveries  made  by  her  husband  when 
he  was  under  the  temporary  delirium  of  fever." 

TJnwilHng  to  make  this  conversation  general.  Lord  St. 
Maur  turned  it  into  a  more  desultory  channel ;  and  not 
long  afterwards,  young  Howard  made  his  appearance,  even 
more  animated  than  usual. 

"  I  suppose,  Master  Frank,  as  you  saw  us  two  years  ago 
in  Rome,  you  have  made  no  manner  of  exertion  to  wel- 
come us  to  England  ?  I  am  half  inclined  not  to  speak  to 
you,"  said  Lady  St.  Maur,  sportively,  as  after  warmly 
greeting  her  husband,  he  eagerly  advanced  towards  her. 
"  You  have  not  the  shadow  of  an  excuse  ;  the  House  doea 
not  meet  to-night  ;  and  even  if  it  did,  we  arrived  here 
early  enough  for  you  to  have  greeted  us  five  hours  ago. 
Do  you  deserve  my  naercy?" 

"  I  will  bear  any  sentence  your  ladyship  may  pronounce," 


152  woman's   friendsii     . 

replied  the  young  man  gayly,  "  if  on  hearing  my  tale  yju 
still  deem  it  deserved.  I  would  not  gratify  myself  by  see- 
ing you,  till  I  could  bring  my  sovereign's  greetings  in  addi- 
tion to  my  own.  I  have  been  in  and  out  the  Herald's  office 
the  whole  day,  to  the  no  small  annoyance  of  its  worthy 
functionaries ;  and  only  now  obtained  what  I  wanted. 
Here,  Melford,  read  out  for  the  good  of  the  public,"  ho 
added  joyously,  throwing  the  Gazette  into  Alfred  Melford's 
outstretched  hand ;  "and  to  you,  my  Lord,"  he  said,  giving 
a  large  sealed  packet  to  Lord  St.  Maur,  "  my  office  is  to 
present  this.  Never  say  that  her  Majesty  knows  not  how 
to  discern  merit  and  reward  it,  but  cry  God  bless  the  Q/Ueen, 
and  \on^  life  to  the  Earl  and  Countess  St.  Maur." 


CHAPTER  XXVL 

EXCUSES   FOR   I^^D0LE^'CE. — THE    FRIEND   SEEKS   HER   FRIEND. 

For  several  weeks  a  complete  whirl  of  gayety  absorbed 
the  time  of  the  newly-created  Earl  and  Countess.  It  was 
not  only  the  very  height  of  the  London  season,  when  levees 
and  drawing-rooms  continually  recurring  compelled  theij 
attendance,  but  their  long  absence  from  England  occa- 
sioned a  wider  round  of  visiting  than  v/as  customary  even 
to  the  gayest  of  the  aristocracy.  Friends,  relatives, 
family  comiectioiis,  all  poured  in  upon  them  with  hospi- 
tality and  proffered  kindness  ;  and  yet  with  all  this  the 
Earl  found  time  to  attend  not  only  to  his  new  office  in  the 
royal  cabinet,  but  to  literary  pursuits,  and  yet  have  his 
children  ii'ith  him  for  two  or  three  hours  in  the  day  aa 
usual ;  ana  Lady  St.  Maur  found  leisure  to  read,  as  was 
her  invariable  custom,  with  her  husband — that  is  to  say, 
to  read  what  he  read,  to  make  extracts  from  black-lettered 
folios,  if  he  had  not  time,  and  withal  attend  to  her  chil- 
dren; delighting  in  giving  her  little  girls  those  first  in- 
structions which  many  mothers  leave  to  hirehngs.  She 
had  time  too  to  enter  into  the  interests  of  all  her  friends,  to 


woman's   friendship.  153 

perceive  with  real  regret  the  state  of  nervous  irritabihty 
into  which  Emily  Melford  had  fallen ;  and  more,  still 
to  think  of  and  long  to  know  something  certain  con- 
cerning the  young  girl  who  had  so  interested  her  just 
before  she  had  quitted  England.  The  belief  that 
Florence  did  not  write  that  extraordinary  letter,  and  that 
in  consequence  she  had  some  secret  enemy,  had  gained 
such  powerful  influence  over  Lady  St.  Maur's  mind,  that, 
though  never  spoken,  she  could  not  shake  it  off.  But 
how  to  obtain  this  information?  In  the  midst  of  her 
gayeties,  her  domestic  pleasures,  her  many  claims,  still 
she  found  herself  repeatedly  thinking  of  Fkrence,  a-nd 
turning  over  every  scheme,  practicable  or  impracticable, 
for  discovering  her,  without,  however,  any  prospect  of 
success  ;  till  one  morning,  about  two  months  after  her 
arrival  in  England,  Alfred  Melford  casually  mentioned  his 
having  seen  her  former  favorite  Florence  Leshe,  the 
year  previously,  but  so  altered  ! 

"Altered;"  repeated  Lady  St.  Maur;  "if  you  could 
only  find  her  for  me,  Alfred,  I  should  be  very  grateful." 

"  I  wish  I  could,  cousin  mine  ;  but  I  do  not  know  how. 
I  am  sure  she  needed  friends,  poor  girl !  and  Emily  might 
have  served  her,  if  she  had  not  thought  so  much  ot 
trouble." 

"  I  really  do  not  know  what  you  mean,  Alfred,"  replied 
his  sister,  languidly.  "  Would  you  have  had  me  go  about 
inquiring  who  among  my  friends  wanted  a  governess,  for 
one  of  whom,  after  all,  I  know  so  little  ?" 

"  A  governess  I"  repeated  the  Countess,  in  painful 
surprise.  "  Emily,  why  did  you  not  tell  me  this  ?  I  have 
more  than  once  asked  you  lately  if  you  knew  any  thing  ot 
her,  and  you  have  always  answered  in  the  negative." 

"  Because  I  do  not  know  any  thing  of  her  now ;  it  is 
ages  ago  since  she  called  at  our  house  to  know  if  tve 
would  recommend  her,  as  she  was  obliged  to  teach  ;  and 
of  course  I  thought  you  must  know  that." 

"  Know  it !  how  ?" 

"  Why,  did  she  not  correspond  with  you  ?" 

"  I  told  you  I  had  not  heard  from  her  for  some  time ; 
she  never  answered  my  letter  to  her  on  her  father's  death." 

"  Because   she   never    received   it,"    interposed    Alfred 


154  woman's  friendship. 

"  Emily  carelessly  mislaid  it  for  so  long,  that  when  it  was 
found  she  destroyed  it  as  useless.  I  advised  her  to  tell 
you,  which  of  course  she  never  did.  And  would  you  be- 
lieve it  ?  she  heard  of  a  situation  which  would  exactly 
have  suited  poor  Florence,  and  which  the  simple  exertion 
of  taking  a  ten  minutes'  drive  would  have  secured  her, 
and  yet  she  Avould  not  make  the  exertion  to  obtain  it." 

"  Well,  what  can  it  signify  ;  she  has  a  situation,  and 
what  more  could  I  have  done  for  her  ?  I  told  her  I  should 
be  glad  to  see  her  whenever  she  liked  to  come  ;  and  as 
she  never  has  come,  I  suppose  she  does  not  care  enough 
about  us." 

"  Nonsense,  Emily  !  very  likely  a  girl  of  Miss  Leslie's 
sensitiveness  should  come  forward  to  seek  our  acquaint- 
ance, with  such  an  indefinite  invitation  I"  angrily  re- 
sponded Melford, 

"  You  have  a  wonderful  knowledge  of  Miss  Leslie's 
character,  Alfred ;"  retorted  Emily,  maliciously.  "  Any 
one  would  suppose  her  pale  face  and  pensive  smile  had 
made  aji  extraordinary  impression." 

"Emily,  you  are  a  fool  I"  he  began,  but,  softened  by 
the  Countess's  beseeching  "Alfred!"  added  more  qui- 
etly— "  A  face  paled  by  evident  anxiety  and  suffering,  and 
a  smile  so  changed  from  its  joyousness,  could  not  fail  of 
making  an  impression." 

"  Is  she  indeed  so  altered  ?"  inquired  Lady  St.  Maur. 
"  But  do  you  know  why  she  was  obliged  to  go  out  ?  I 
knev/  Mr.  Leslie  was  not  rich,  but  I  fancied  his  children 
provided  for." 

"  So  perhaps  they  might  have  been,  but  I  believe 
some  unfortunate  lawsuit,  which  Mr.  Leslie  did  not 
live  to  complete,  ruined  them  ;  but  I  must  go.  I  wish 
you  could  convince  Emily  that,  however  she  may  think 
indolence  no  sin  in  itself,  it,  occasions  the  commission  of 
too  many  to  be  disregarded  ;  and  there  is  the  first  moral 
axiom  my  giddy  brain  ever  threw  into  words.  Fearing 
my  next  speech  should  counteract  it,  good-by." 

"He  is  exceedingly  annoying ;  I  wonder  what  has  come 
over  him?"  observed  his  sister  on  his  departure.  "Any 
»ne  would  think  he  was  turning  saint." 

"  Why  ?  "because  he  happened  to  say  the  truth  ?     Alfred 


WOMAN    S    FRIENDSHIP.  155 

has  excellent  feelings  and  high  religious  principles, 
though,  happily  for  himself,  he  can  conceal  them  from 
those  who  would  laugh  him  out  of  them." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  he  is  right,  then  ?  I  often 
console  myself  with  the  idea,  that  by  not  going  out  I  es- 
cape from  those  fashionable  follies  which  so  many  make 
the  sum  of  their  existence." 

"  You  have  tried  the  school  of  comparative  solitude  for 
the  last  two  years,  my  dear  Emily ;  but  tell  me,  are  you 
the  same  happy,  mirthful  being  you  were  when  I  left 
England?" 

For  a  few  m.inutes  Emily  paused,  touched  by  Ida's 
affectionate  tone,  and  then  with  a  sudden  burst  of  natural 
feeling,  she"  exclaimed — 

"  Ida,  I  will  answer  you,  for  I  believe  you  are  my  truest 
friend  ;  and  perhaps  if  you  had  never  left  me,  I  should 
scarcely  have  smik  so  low  as  I  am  now.  I  am  miserable. 
I  feel  chained  down  by  a  dead  weight  which  I  cannot  cast 
aside.  I  have  no  energy,  no  power,  and  must  remain  a 
useless  burden  for  the  remainder  of  my  days." 

"Do  not  say  so,  Emily;  but  tell  me  what  first  induced 
you  to  fly  the  world." 

"  Oh  !  it  is  not  worth  your  hearing.  Do  you  remember 
my  telling  you  I  meant  to  throw  off  all  restraint,  from 
having  had  thirteen  years  of  school  discipline,  and  seek 
only  my  own  pleasure  ?  I  see  you  do,  and  also  your  own 
prophetic  answer — for  literally  I  am  one  of  the  most  dis- 
agieeable,  selfish  beings  in  the  universe.  Well,  I  adhered 
to  my  words — I  read  nothing  but  the  lightest  and  most 
frivolous  novels  ;  did  nothing  but  make  and  receive  visits. 
I  thought  the  weeks  horribly  long,  and  insufferably  dull, 
if  one  night  passed  without  a  party.  I  danced,  flirted, 
waltzed,  with  little  cessation  through  the  season.  I  had 
many  disagreeable  entanglements,  but  still  there  was  ex- 
citement in  getting  out  of  them  ;  and  then  I  fancied  that  I 
loved  three  or  four  times,  and  one,  the  last,  heigho  I  if  he 
had  but  been  rich,  I  might  have  been  a  different  being; 
for  the  poor  fellow  did  love  me,  and  I  did  not  treat  him 
well — but  that  has  little  to  do  with  my  story.  I  mingled 
only  with  the  heartless,  the  cold,  the  worldly ;  all  that 
appeared    good   I   believed   to   be   hypocrisy.      I   do   not 


156  woman's  friendship. 

know  now  what  stopped  me  in  this  headlong  career; 
perhaps  it  was  hearing  that  the — the — young  man  to 
whom  I  referred  just  now,  and  whom  my  coquetry  and  ill- 
usage  had  compelled  to  exchange  his  regiment  for  one 
going  to  India,  was  drowned  on  his  passage  ;  but  I  awoko 
as  from  a  hideous  dream — all  my  past  excitement  looked 
like  grmning  shadows.  I  seemed  to  be  standing  on  a 
precipice,  overhangmg  a  gulf  of  perdition,  uito  which 
but  one  step  more  would  plmige  me  everlastingly,  and  I 
shuddered  and  turned  back  !  but  with  a  shock  so  violent 
tliat  I  inwardly  vowed  never  to  enter  such  scenes  again. 
Of  course  the  fever  of  excitement  ended  in  bodily  ex- 
haustion, and  its  horrible  void ;  for  I  was  never  very 
strong,  and  then  I  imagined  myself  ill,  and  it  was  a  good 
excuse  for  changing  my  mode  of  life,  and  so  I  encouraged 
it  till  I  really  had  no  power  to  do  otherwise.  And  now 
you  know  my  whole  story,  and  you  must  see  that  I  have 
more  excuse  for  indolence  and  solitude  than  most  people 
have." 

"  You  have  indeed  told  me  a  sad  story,  Emily  ;  but  I 
cannot  come  to  the  same  conclusion.  Why,  to  escape  from 
faults  of  commission,  do  you  run  headlong  into  those  of 
omission  and  neglect?  Why  not  rather  seek  better  and 
nobler  sources  of  enjoyment  and  exertion?" 

"  Where  can  I  find  them  ?  I  do  think  unmarried 
women  the  most  useless,  miserable  beings  in  existence  I 
they  have  no  call  for  exertion,  nothing  to  interest  them." 

"  Have  you  lost  all  the  power  of  affection,  Emily  ?" 

"  My  dear  Ida,  surely  now  you  do  not  speak  with  your 
usual  wisdom.  What  can  mamma  or  papa  want  w'th 
me  ?  what  can  I  do  for  them,  or  even  feel  for  them,  to  fill 
up  this  craving  void  ?  And  as  for  Georgiana,  really  she 
would  laugh  at  the  idea  of  my  requiring  her  affection,  oi 
feeling  any  for  her.  Friend  I  there  is  no  such  thing  in  the 
London  world." 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  my  dear  Emily,  do  not  make  such 
rvveeping  assertions.  K  you  are  bereft  of  common  feeling, 
of  course  my  arguments  can  have  little  weight ;  but 
you  might  have  made  a  friend — Florence." 

"  Do  not  speak  of  Florence,  Ida — I  would  not  have 
AKred  know  it  because  he  torments  me  quite  enough  ;  but 


woman's  friendship.  157 

I  will  tell  you  that  her  note,  though  it  simply  thanked  my 
intended  kindness,  and  said  she  no  longer  needed  it,  caused 
such  painful  feelings  that  I  destroyed  it,  for  I  could  not  bear 
to  think  of,  or  look  at  it." 

"  And  you  have  no  remembrance  at  all  of  her  address  ?" 

"No;  but  I  think  I  kept  the. name  and  address  of  the 
lady  with  whom  she  said  she  was  going  to  reside  ;  for  while 
the  stinging  self-reproach  lasted,  I  thought  if  I  heard  of  any 
thing  more  advantageous  I  would  write  to  her ;  but  that  idea 
of  course  only  lasted  till  conscience  was  silenced,  two  days 
afterwards.  How  you,  with  all  your  new  interests  and 
affections,  can  have  still  time  and  inclination  to  bestow  a 
thought  on  one  whom  you  knew  so  short  a  time,  I  cannot 
understand ;  you  certainly  are  an  extraordinary  |*erson.  I 
wish  I  were  more  hke  you,  but  I  was  not  so  constituted  ;  I 
cannot  help  my  nature." 

How  many  there  are  in  the  world  like  Emily  Melford, 
who  never  fail  to  drown  the  still  small  voice  of  conscience 
by  the  consoling  reflection,  it  is  not  themselves  but  their 
constitution  at  fault ;  that  they  cannot  help  themselves, 
and  therefore  make  no  exertion  so  to  do. 

For  a  wonder,  Emily  kept  her  promise.  The  following 
morning  came  Mrs.  Russel's  direction,  and  the  Countess 
wrote  immediately,  requesting  to  know  if  a  young  lady  of 
the  name  of  Florence  Leslie  still  resided  with  Mrs.  Russel, 
as  governess  ;  or  if  she  had  left,  she  would  feel  really  obliged 
for  any  information  concerning  her  which  Mrs,  Russel  could 
bestow. 


♦-^■^ 


CHAPTER  XXVn. 

TO  PROVE   INNOCENCE  AND   RELIEVE   SUFFERING   IS  NOT  A  NEEDLESS 
EXERTION. 

Several  days  elapsed  before  Lady  St.  Maur  received  any 
answer  to  her  note,  and  when  the  reply  did  come,  it  con 
tained  little  satisfactory. 

"  Mrs.  Russel' s  compliments  to  the  Countess  St.  Maui 
14 


158  woman's   friendship. 

and  begs  to  inform  her  ladyship  that  a  young  person  of 
the  name  of  Florence  Leslie  did  reside  with  her  a  fe\f 
months,  as  governess ;  but  having  discovered  she  had 
Dcen  grossly  deceived,  and  that  the  person  in  question 
was  very  unfit  for  such  a  responsible  situation,  Mrs. 
Russel  was  compelled  to  dismiss  her  directly,  and  knows 
nothing  more  concerning  her  or  her  family." 

This  was  such  a  strong  confirmation  of  previous  reports, 
that  Lady  St.  Maur's  secret  hopes  fell ;  yet  still  she  was 
not  satisfied,  and  while  sitting  in  painful  perplexity,  Lady 
Mary  Yilliers  and  Alfred  Melford  chanced  to  call  in. 
"  "What  is  the  matter,  Ida  ?  Anxiety  in  the  Upper  House, 
yclept  the  nursery  ?  Any  of  the  ladies  or  lords  there  not 
as  well  as  their  mamma  thinks  they  ought  to  be  ?"  was 
the  former's  lively  greeting,  which  the  Countess  answered 
by  putting  Mrs.  Russel's  note  in  her  hand,  adding  with 
a  smile,  "  I  am  not  at  all  the  fanciful  mamma  you  would 
make  me,  Mary  ;  my  children  are  all  well,  and  I  value  the 
blessing  rather  too  thankfully  to  alloy  it  by  imagining  them 
otherwise  without  just  cause." 

"  And  yet  you  worry  yourself  about  such  a  trifle  as  this. 
My  dear  Ida,  I  shall  hate  the  very  name  of  Florence  Leslie, 
if  it  is  to  annoy  you  in  this  manner !  What  can  she  be 
to  you  that  you  cannot  dismiss  her  from  your  mind,  be- 
lieving her,  as  everybody  else  does,  no  longer  worthy  of 
your  regard  ?  This  note  does  but  confirm  what  you  already 
know." 

""What  can  you  possibly  mean?"  exclaimed  Melford 
indignantly.  "  Florence  Leslie  unworthy  of  Ida's  regard  ? 
She  IS  no  more  unworthy  of  it  than  I  am,  if  as  much 
What  can  you  mean  ?" 

They  told  him,  but  he  w^as  only  the  more  indignant. 
^'  It  is  all  some  specious  lie — I  beg  your  pardon,  Ida,  for 
the  word — I  have  seen  Miss  Leslie  later  than  either  of 
you,  and  I  would  stake  my  reputation  that  no  more  sin  or 
shame  lies  on  that  heart  than  on  either  of  those  I  have  the 
honor  of  now  addressing.  Go  yourself  to  this  Mrs. 
Russel,  Ida;  I  dare  say  she  has  invented  this  tale  to  ex- 
cuse her  dismissal  of  poor  Florence,  because  she  was  too 
good  for  h'jr." 


woman's   friendship.  159 

"  Strange  then  it  should  so  exactly  agree  with  the  pre- 
vious rumors,"  repUed  Lady  Mary,  who,  without  any 
malice  or  envy,  had  yet  some  secret  jealously  that  such  an 
unknown  person  should  have  any  part  of  her  friend's  in- 
terest or  regard.  "  What  good  can  Ida's  taking  so  much 
trouble  do,  except  to  aimoy  her  yet  more  ?" 

"  Lady  Mary,  you  are  too  prejudiced  for  rnc.  My 
cousin  Ida  will  not  give  up  tiiis  poor  girl  without  sufficient 
cause.  Go  to  Mrs.  Russel,  Ida,  raake  her  tell  you  more 
particulars  ;  or  if  you  do  not  like  to  do  so,  authorize  me, 
and  I  will  get  out  the  truth,  you  may  depend." 

"  Thank  you,  my  good  cousin,  hut  I  will  go  myself.  My 
dear  Mary,  do  not  look  so  much  annoyed;  you  knew  I 
told  you,  years  ago,  if  I  found  Florence  worthy  of  my 
regard  she  should  have  it  still." 

"  But  she  is  not  worthy,  and  that  is  what  annoys  me." 

*'  How  do  I  know  that  she  is  not  ?  Rumor  never 
weighs  a  breath  with  me  ;  I  must  have  positive  proofs  of 
guilt  before  I  will  believe  it,  and  I  care  not  what  trouble  it 
costs  to  discover  the  truth.  Still  not  satisfied,  Mary  ? 
You  cannot  be  so  altered  as  to  envy  that  poor  friendless 
girl  the  triffing  happiness  of  my  unchanged  regard." 

"  I  know  I  am  very  selfish,  dearest  Ida,  but  you  niust 
forgive  me  ;  I  value  your  love  so  highly  that  I  cannot  bear 
to  see  it  unworthily  bestowed,"  said  Lady  Mary  frankly, 
kissing  the  Countess  affectionately  as  she  spoke  ;  "  and, 
after  hearing  what  we  have  heard,  I  think " 

"  You  think  I  might  just  as  well  be  satisfied  with  the 
friends  I  have,  and  not  seek  others ;  is  it  not  so  ?  And 
Si'  leave  poor  Florence  to  her  fate,  innocent  or  guilty. 
Such  is  not  quite  my  idea  of  woman's  friendship.  No, 
Mary,  to  prove  innocence  and  relieve  suffering  can  never 
be  the  needless  exertion  you  wish  me  to  suppose  it," 

Still  Lady  Mary  was  not  quite  convinced.  In  fact, 
A-lfred  Melford  was  the  only  one  who  gave  the  Countess 
encouragement  in  her  benevolence.  The  Earl  himself, 
and  Lady  Helen,  though  generally  the  last  to  entertain 
any  thing  approaching  to  prejudice,  still  imagined  the 
fancy  of  two  persons  having  names  so  exactly  similar, 
and  moving  in  the  same  scenes,  much  too  romantic  to 
be   entertained   a  moment.      They    did    not    indeed    say 


l60  woman's  friendship. 

much  ;  but  what  is  there  more  painfully  chilling  that 
to  read  donht  and  want  of  sympathy  in  those  whoss 
approval  M'e  lonf^  for,  as  robing  our  cherished  plans  with 
an  importance  which  of  themselves  they  never  can  attain. 

It  so  happened,  just  about  this  time,  that  in  inquiring 
amongst  various  jewellers  for  a  rare  stone,  to  replace  one 
which  had  fallen  from  Lady  St.  Maur's  bracelet,  Alice 
had  perceived,  and  instantly  recognised  the  identical  ciosy 
and  chain  which  her  lady  had  presented  to  Miss  Leslie. 
Knowing  how  anxious  the  Countess  was  to  discover  some 
trace  of  Florence,  she  asked  many  questions  as  to  how  and 
where  that  trinket  had  been  obtained.  Mr.  Danvers  could 
tell  her  little,  except  that  he  had  purchased  it  some  months 
ago  of  a  young  lady  who  was  in  mourning,  and  wore  so 
thick  a  veil  that  he  could  not  even  discern  her  countenance  ; 
but,  by  the  tone  of  her  voice,  he  w-as  sure  she  was  a  lady. 
Lady  St.  Maur  without  hesitation  repurchased  it,  satisfying 
herself  it  was  the  identical  jewel  by  touching  the  spring 
(of  whose  existence  the  jeweller  was  unconscious)  and 
the  letters  L  Y.  to  F.  L.  were  still  distinctly  visible,  but 
the  braid  of  hair  was  gone. 

Lady  Mary  was  indignant  that  Florence  could  ever  have 
sold  the  trinket ;  she  could  not  imagine  any  distress  so 
great  as  to  demand  such  a  sacrifice,  and  if  she  really  were 
so  distressed,  why  did  she  not  do  as  Ida  had  desired  her. 
write  and  ask  her  promised  influence ;  that  she  did  not 
was  a  still  stronger  proof  of  her  unworthiness.  Besides, 
how  could  they  be  sure  that  it  was  not  individual  impru- 
dence instead  of  family  distress  which  had  compelled  its 
sale  ?  The  Earl  and  Lady  Helen  said  nothing  ;  but  Ida  felt 
that  their  opmions  sided  with  Lady  Mary's,  and  though  her 
own  heart  still  defended  Florence,  she  half  shrunk  from 
pursuing  her  inquiries,  lest  the  truth  should  indeed  be 
Buch  as  to  demand  the  relinquishing  of  all  her  generous 
plans  and  kindly  feehngs.  Alfred  Meh'brd,  how^ever,  per- 
iisted  in  his  assertion  of  Florence's  entire  innocence,  and 
the  visit  to  Mrs.  Hussel,  which  he  so  urgently  advised. 
Was  in  consequence  no  longer  deferred. 


woman's  friendship.  IGl 


CHAPTER  IDiVm. 

ALFRED    TdELFORD    EXERTS    HIMSELF. — LA.DT   MARY    ALTERS   HETi 
OPINION. TnE  UNKNOWN  KUSICLA-N. 

"Well,  what  news,  fair  cousin?"  exclaimed  young 
Melford,  galloping  up  to  Lady  St.  Maur's  carriage,  half 
way  between  Norwood  and  London,  and  checking  his 
horse  to  a  speaking  pace. 

"  Bad  I"  replied  Lady  Mary,  mischievously.  "  Ida  has 
only  had  reports  confirmed." 

"  Of  course,  that  I  expected  from  Mrs.  Russel's  note  , 
hut  are  you  satisfied,  Ida  ?" 

"  JSTot  at  all,  I  am  as  far  from  the  truth  as  ever ;  except 
that  Florence  positively  denied  the  charge," 

"  Hurrah  then,  victory  !"  exclaimed  Melford,  joyously. 
'*  And  Mrs.  Russel — " 

"  Is  much  too  prejudiced  a  person  for  her  assertion  to 
have  any  weight,  even  I  acknowledge,"  said  Lady  Mary, 
frankly. 

"But  what  did  she  say?" 

"  Only  what  we  already  know,"  replied  the  Countess. 
"  She  went  on  a  visit  to  her  friends  in  Hampshire,  was  oi 
course  questioned  as  to  her  new  governess,  heard  all 
the  reports,  and  without  deigning  a  single  question  as 
to  whether  or  not  Florence  was  the  person  supposed, 
dismissed  her  on  the  instant.  Of  course  her  story  to  me 
was  very  precise,  and  very  plausible  ;  but  I  give  you  its 
interpretation." 

"  Have  you  any  clue  to  Miss  Leslie's  present  residence?" 

"  I  fear  none.  Mrs.  Hussel  thought  she  lived  at  Peck- 
ham  or  Camberwell,  but  could  not  pretend  to  say  ;  the  less 
she  had  to  do  with  such  a  person,  she  thought,  the  better." 

''  I  will  find  her,  if  I  call  at  every  house  in  both  those 
places,"  muttered  Melford. 

"  To  prove  her  innocence,  or  deny  my  penetration  a 
triumph,  Mr.  Melford  ?"  demanded  Lady  Mary,  archly. 

**  To  prove,"  he  replied,  so  gravely,  almost  reproach- 
fully, that  Lady   Mary  felt  unconsciously  rebuked,   •*  how 

14* 


162  woman's   friendship. 

much  more  kindly  and  justly  woman   is  judged  by  man 
than  by  her  own  sex." 

'  You  forget  Ida  and  the  Earl,"   replied  Lady  Mary 
rallying. 

"  Ida  is  incapable  of  so  petty  a  feeling  as  prejudice. 
Even  if  she  had  not  known  Florence,  her  judgment  would 
be  the  same  as  it  is  now.  The  Earl  never  knew  Miss 
Leslie,  and  is  annoyed  that  the  very  shadow  of  a  doubt 
should  rest  on  any  one  in  whom  his  wife  is  uiterested." 

"  You  are  a  barrister,  Mr.  Melford,  and  will  of  course 
make  your  client's  cause  good,"  answered  Lady  Mary, 
jestingly  ^  but  if  the  truth  must  be  written,  she  was  not 
quite  pleased,  having  just  that  sort  of  lurking  inclination 
towards  young  Melford  which  made  her  feel  annoyed  that 
any  other  woman  should  so  occupy  his  thoughts. 

Melford  kept  his  word.  Every  hour  he  could  snatch 
from  his  studies  he  devoted  to  his  cousin's  service,  and  at 
length  succeeded  in  discovering  the  lodging  at  Camber- 
well  which  Mrs.  Leslie  had  occupied,  but  to  his  great  dis- 
appointment, it  was  then  untenanted.  From  the  landlady, 
however,  he  heard  much  to  deepen  his  interest  in  the 
search.  Mrs.  Everett  had  become  so  attached  to  her 
lodgers,  that  with  the  garrulity  of  her  class,  she  poured 
forth  all  they  had  encountered  from  sickness  and  privation  ; 
and  how  the  young  ladies  had  worked  to  pay  her  rent, 
and  prevent  bills  running  on ;  and  how  the  young  gentle- 
man had  painted  the  beautifuUest  pictures,  and  wrote  such 
fine  poetry,  that  she  used  to  listen  and  listen,  and  the 
words  were  so  grandlike,  yet  so  simple,  they  made  her 
feel  as  her  Bible  did.  "  Poor  young  gentleman,"  she 
continued,  "  he  was  almost  an  angel  before  he  died  ;  and 
I  am  sure  he  is  one  now  1"  and  she  put  her  apron  to  hei 
eyes. 

"  Died  I"  repeated  young  Melford.  "  Has  there  been 
a  death  lately  in  the  family,  then?" 

"Bless  your  kind  heart,  yes  sir;  and  that  was  for  why 
the  poor  lady,  his  mother,  and  her  daughter  left  me 
Natural  like,  they  could  not  bear  to  remain  where  every- 
thing reminded  them  of  him  ;  for  I  never  saw  such  love 
as  existed  between  'em  all.  I  am  sure  the  poor  young 
man  killed  himself     Why  bless  you,  he  used  at  one  time 


woman's   friendship.  163 

to  sit  up  half  the  night  writing  those  fine  poems  ;  and 
then  he  got  ill.  Miss  Leslie  was  out  as  a  governess  then, 
and  never  knew  how  ill  her  poor  brother  was  till  he  was 
a  little  better,  and  she  came  home  suddenly,  and  when  she 
got  a  little  over  her  own  misfortunes — for  between  you 
and  me,  sir,  I  think  that  good-for-nothing  hard  woman 
with  whom  she  had  lived  had  said  sometliing  very  shame- 
ful about  her  character,  almost  taking  it  from  her,  when, 
bless  you,  she  was  mnocent  as  a  lamb,  so  good  and  re- 
ligious, and  devoted  to  her  family.  She  could  no  luore 
have  acted  as  they  said  she  did  than  I  could,  and  it  was 
so  cruel  to  say  she  was  a  bad  girl,  and  so  deprive  her  of 
bread." 

"  I  knew  it  was  a  He  ;"  Melford  burst  forth  at  this  point, 
to  Mrs.  Everett's  great  surprise. 

"  La,  sir  I  you  startle  me.  Howsomdever,  peiiiaps  it 
was  all  the  happier  for  her  to  be  at  home,  when  her  poor 
brother  was  so  weak  and  ill  ;  but  she  used  to  go  and 
teach  every  day  nearly  two  miles  off,  trudged  through  hail 
and  rain,  cold  and  snow,  when  she  would  shake  again  from 
v^eakness,  and  perhaps  sitting  up  the  greater  part  of  the 
night ;  and  when  I  have  begged  her  not,  she  used  to  say, 
with  such  a  sweet  smile,  it  made  my  heart  ache — "  Who 
is  to  pay  your  rent,  dear  Mrs.  Everett,  if  I  do  not  work  ; 
and  how  can  we  be  unjust  to  you,  when  you  are  so  kind  ?" 

"  But  she  had  a  sister,  had  she  not  ?"  here  interposed 
Melford  ;  "  did  she  do  nothing  ?" 

"  Nothing  I  bless  you  sir,  she  worked  at  her  needle  as 
hard  as  any  of  them  ;  but  she  was  too  young,  too  pretty 
to  go  out  as  Miss  Florence  did  ;  she  wanted  to  do  it,  and 
cried  often  enough  that  she  was  not  like  other  girls.  Ah, 
sir,  Mr.  Leslie  was  quite  right ;  though  she  was  too  pretty 
to  go  out  alone,  or  be  dependent,  you  never  saw  such  a 
lovely  face,  or  heard  such  a  voice — it  was  like  an  angel's. 
I  have  come  and  listened  to  her  singing  on  a  Sunday 
night,  and  felt  myself  in  heaven  ;  for  then  she  only  sung 
words  from  the  Bible,  but  such  beautiful  solemn  tunes  ; 
and  to  have  seen  how  her  mother  and  sister  and  Mr. 
Walter  hstened  and  looked  at  her,  it  would  have  been  a 
good  lesson  to  some  families  who  don't  know  what  family 
love   is.     Ah,  sir,  it  is  very,  very  hard  when  gentlefolks 


164  WOMAN    S     FRIENDSHIP 

like  them  become  so  poor,  and  obliged  to  ^vork  like  slaves,, 
much  harder  than  for  follvs  in  my  station.  We  are  born 
to  it,  and  can  work  without  feeling  it.  Well,  sir,  the  poor 
young  gentleman  wrote  and  wrote,  and  painted  even  when 
he  could  not  walk,  and  at  last  finished  a  book,  which 
natural  like,  he  wanted  printed.  Oh,  sir,  how  his  poor 
sister  worked  to  gratify  him  ;  up  earlier  than  ever,  often 
out  almost  before  the  light,  and  not  home  till  so  late,  an«l 
at  last  she  got  a  gentleman  to  agree,  and  pay  nearly  all 
the  expenses  ;  and  what  do  you  think  she  did  to  make 
up  the  money  ?  why,  without  telling  him,  sold  all  her 
jewels.  She  had  not  many  ;  but  one  she  loved  so  much, 
a  beautiful  cross  and  chain  some  dear  friend  had  given  her, 
and  oh  !  how  cut  up  she  was  in  parting  with  it ;  but  she 
did  not  hesitate,  for  she  never  thought  of  herself  or  her 
oAvn  sufferings,  and  so  it  was  sold  ;  and  after  all,  her  poor 
brother  is  gone  to  a  better  world,  and  what  will  the  book 
be  to  him  ?" 

*'  And  how  along  ago  was  this  ?"  inquired  Melford. 

"  Some  time  last  May,  sir  ;  but  poor  Miss  Leslie  knew 
he  must  die  weeks  before.  Oh  !  what  an  hour  that  was  ! 
but  she  bore  up  for  her  brother's  sake,  and  her  poor 
mother's,  and  only  sank  when  he  did  not  need  her  any 
more.  I  thought  she  would  have  never  recovered  from 
the  swoon  she  had  when  she  came  home,  and  found  he  was 
dead — had  died,  sir,  in  the  very  act  of  finishing  a  beautiful 
picture.  She  was  very,  very  ill,  and  I  think  that  kept  poor 
Mrs.  Leslie  up  ;  but  I  fear  me  she  will  not  last  long,  and 
those  two  poor  young  ladies  will  be  left  without  a  single 
ftiend."     And  the  good  woman  actually  sobbed. 

Melford  respected  the  feeling,  and  so  Idndly  assured  her 
tha^  they  had  friends,  that  he  had,  in  fact,  come  on  the  part 
of  one  most  anxious  to  discover  them,  that  she  soon  re- 
covered herself 

"  Bless  you,  sir,  for  such  good  news  !  Well,  as  soon  as 
poor  Miss  Leslie  could  be  moved,  they  went  to  an  old 
relation  somewhere  in  Berkshire  ;  and  Miss  Minie,  sweet 
soul !  wrote  to  me  often  to  tell  me  how  her  poor  sister  was, 
and  grieving  that  they  must  change  their  lodgings.  I 
havn't  heard  where  they  are  now ;  for  Miss  Minie  wro+e 
the  last  time  all  in  the  bustle  of  moving  and  settling,  a?  \ 


woman's   friendship.  Ifi/i 

forgot  to  put  the  direction,  but  said  slie  would  come  and  see 
me  very  soon.  And,  bless  your  heart,  sir,  she  will  be  sure 
to  come,  for  she  is  a  true  lady,  as  they  all  are  ;  not  a  bit  of 
pride  about  'em." 

Alfred  Mulford  was  an  eloquent  narrator  ;  and  so  simply 
and  touchingly  did  he  repeat  Mrs.  Everett's  comnumica- 
tions,  that  not  one  of  his  auditors,  even  the  prejudiced  Lady 
Mary,  or  the  stagnant  Emily,  could  listen  to  him  unmoved. 

"  Ida,  dearest  Ida  I  I  have  indeed  been  too  prejudiced  ; 
but  I  know  if  you  find  this  poor  girl  you  will  forgive 
me,  and  let  me  aid  your  labor  of  kindness,"  exclaimed 
Lady  Mary,  warmly,  as  she  knelt  down  playfully  on  the 
cusliion  at  the  Countess's  feet.  "  What  are  you  think- 
ing about  so  sorrowfully  ?  AYe  shall  find  her,  depend 
upon  it." 

"  I  was  thinking,  Mary,  why  she  should  never  have 
written  to  me  in  her  brother's  behalf;  her  own  sufferings 
I  know  she  would  never  have  revealed.  But  why  she 
should  never  have  appealed  to  my  promised  influence,  for 
him  whom  it  might  have  so  beneficially  served,  perplexes 
me  more  than  ever." 

"  Her  letter  may  have  been  lost,  miscarried,  or  even 
changed." 

"  Changed  I"  repeated  Lady  St.  Maur,  eagerly  inter- 
rupting him.  "  Alfred,  if  such  a  thing  were  really  possi- 
ble, you  have  given  me  the  clue  to  all  the  apparent  mys- 
tery of  Florenco's  conduct.  You  not  only  aid  me  by  active 
service,  but  by  your  ready  judgment ;  hoAi  can  I  thank 
you  ?" 

"Do  not  thank  me  at  all,  cousin  mine,"  he  answered, 
laugliing ;  "  thank  your  own  persevering  benevolence, 
without  which,  this  poor  girl  must  ever  have  remained  a 
victim  to  mese  lying  reports.  Frank  Howard,  most  hon- 
orable member  I  I  hope  your  exertions  last  night  have 
■"xot  robbed  you  of  eloquence  this  morning,"  he  continued, 
gayly,  as  young  Howard  and  Sir  Charles  Brashleigh,  at  that 
moment  entered.  "  What  senatorial  mission  can  bring  you 
here  ?" 

"  Surely  I  may  pay  my  homage  to  the  Countess  St.  Maui 
as  well  as  yourself?"  replied  the  young  man,  in  the  sarae 
tone. 


166  woman's    friendship 

"  I  did  not  know  that  you  had  time  to  spare  for  suci! 
frivoHty,  my  eloquent  friend  ;  and  now  I  believe,  in  spita 
of  that  chivalric  speech,  your  business  is  more  with  the  Earl 
than-  with  Ida." 

"  You  are  quite  mistaken,  for  I  parted  with  the  Earl  not 
half  an  hour  ago,  at  Morton's,  the  publisher,  where  you 
should  have  been  with  me,  Melford," 

"  To  look  over  some  musty  pamphlets  of  parliamentary 
debates,  of  the  time  of  Caractacus  ?  Not  I ;  1  have  enough 
to  do  with  Blackstone." 

"  No,"  replied  Howard,  laughing.  "  I  was  waiting  in 
Morton's  private  parlor  till  he  should  be  disengaged, 
when  I  heard  some  one  singing  in  the  adjoining  room  ;  1 
never  heard  any  thing  so  beautiful  in  my  life  !  It  was  that 
sublime  air  of  Handel's — '  Comfort  ye  my  people,'  poured 
forth  with  such  liquid  sweetness,  such  thrilling  power, 
it  held  me  entranced  as  if  my  very  breath  were  chained. 
It  ceased  at  length,  to  my  great  grief,  and  was  followed 
by  one  of  Morton's  daughters  taking  her  lesson,  filling 
me  with  astonishment  who  this  gifted  instructress  could 
be.  Morton  came  at  length,  full  of  apology  at  the 
delay ;  and  looking  most  mysteriously  annoyed  when  I 
told  him  if  that  delicious  music  had  continued,  I  would 
willingly  have  waited  all  day.  At  last  he  owned  the 
cause  of  his  vexation.  It  appears  that  the  singer  is  a 
very  young  and  most  beautiful  girl,  compelled  thus  to 
seek  her  livelihood ;  that  her  mother  and  sister  have 
done  all  they  could  to  prevent  her  going  out,  but  the  neces- 
sity becoming  imperative,  Morton  obtained  her  pupils  in  a 
few  quiet  families,  on  whom  he  thought  he  could  depeiifl 
She  has,  however,  already  excited  notice  and  adulation , 
some  frivolous  idlers  watch  her  in  and  out,  and  beset 
her  with  heartless  and  cruel  attentions.  Morton  has  stop- 
ped this  as  much  as  he  can  ;  but  he  cannot  always  be  near 
her,  and  she  has  unhappily  neither  father  nor  brother  to 
protect  her." 

"  Poor  girl !  and  who  is  she  ?"  inquired  Lady  St.  Maur, 
who  had  been  conversing  with  Sir  Charles,  but  attracted 
by  Howard's  tale,  had  paused  to  listen. 

"  I  camiot  tell  you  I  for  Morton  seemed  so  annoyed,  that 
I  promised  him  I  would  not  ask  any  thing  more  about  her. 


woman's  friendship.  167 

or  even  mention  what  I  had  heard,  except  to  those  likely 
to  assist  him  in  his  benevolence  rather  than  to  annoy  its 
object." 

"  And  you  refused  to  see  her,  satisfied  only  to  hear  ? 
Frank,  you  have  more  forbearance  than  I  have,"  exclaimed 
Melfor'd  ;  "  and  not  even  to  ask  her  name  I  Have  you 
heard  this  paragon.  Sir  Charles  ?  Morton  is  patronized  by 
you ;  perhaps  you  can  tell  us  who  she  is  ?" 

"  I  have  a  very  bad  memory  for  names,  Melford,  as  you 
know,"  replied  the  old  physician  musingly  ;  "but  I  believe 
this  beautiful  girl  is  the  sister  of  a  young  poet,  in  whom 
Morton  has  been  deeply  interested  lately.  Poor  fellow  !  I 
was  quite  shocked  to  hear  that  he  died  two  or  three  months 
ago.  I  knew  he  could  not  live,  for  his  heart  was  broken  ; 
but  I  did  not  think  it  would  have  been  so  soon." 

"  This  is  worse  and  worse.  Sir  Charles,"  said  Lady  Mary ; 
"  here  you  are  giving  a  most  interesting  addition  to  Frank's 
adventure,  and  mystifying  us  as  much  as  he  did.  Did  you 
attend  him  ?" 

"  I  saw  him  but  once,  for  I  could  do  him  no  good. 
Poverty  had  compelled  a  drudgery  wholly  at  variance 
with  either  health  or  inclination  ;  and  his  rich  gifts  lay 
upon  his  mind  and  crushed  him.  In  all  my  practice  I 
never  saw  such  devoted  attachment  to  each  other  in  the 
members  of  one  family  as  in — " 

"  Was  his  name  Leslie  ?"  exclaimed  Melford,  bounding 
over  chairs  and  tables  till  he  reached  Sir  Charles's  side, 
and  speaking  in  a  tone  that  completely  electrified  his 
hearers.  "It  must  be,  I  am  sure  it  is — a  poet! — a  thrill- 
ing voice  I — why  here  is  the  very  commentary  of  Mrs. 
Everett's  tale.  How  blind  and  deaf  I  was  not  to  trace  it 
before  !  Sir  Charles,  in  pity  speak  !  was  not  the  name 
Leslie  ?  and  did  you  not  go  to  C  imberwell  ?  and  was  not 
one  of  the  poet's  sisters  named  Florence  ?  and — " 

"  My  good  fellow,  if  you  take  away  my  breath  in  this 
manner,  you  will  get  no  answer  at  all.  I  recollect  now,  it 
taas  Leslie,  and  there  was  a  Florence  too.  Why,  Lady  St. 
Maur,  you  look  as  relieved  as  this  mad  boy  ;  do  explain." 

But  till  Melford' s  noisy  joy  was  over,  all  attempt  at  ex- 
planation was  vain.  And  before  the  conversation  could 
be  connectedly  resumed,  Lord  St.  Maur  entered  the  room. 


168  woman's   friendship. 

"  I  have  news  for  you,  Ida,"  he  said,  "  Morton  has  been 
telling  me  such  a  tale  of  affliction  and  genius  and  worth, 
that  I  only  wish  we  had  known  it  before.  You  are  right, 
as  in  matters  of  feeling  you  always  are,  and  we  have  all 
been  harsh  and  A\Tong  ;  but  you  know  it  already,"  he  added, 
half-disappointed,  as  ho  met  her  animated  glance. 

"  Not  all,  dearest  Edmund ;  only  tell  me,  will  you  blame 
my  anxicly  now  ?" 

♦*  No,  my  o-vvTi  kind  love  ;  but  let  me  eat  my  luncheon, 
for,  unromantic  as  it  is,  I  am  very  hungr}'' ;  and  we  will 
compare  notes  meanwile.  On  one  point  you  may  be  quite 
easy,  I  have  Mrs.  Leslie's  address,  and  you  can  go  to  her  or 
send  for  Florence  whenever  you  please." 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

FOUND  AT  LAST. 

Mrs.  E\rERETT's  garrulous  detail  was  more  exact  than 
usual.  Florence  had  been  extremely  ill :  the  succession 
of  fainting  fits  which  had  followed  the  awful  discovery 
that  the  loved  one  had  departed,  only  too  plainly  demon- 
strated the  exhaustion  to  which  she  was  reduced  ;  and  the 
stupifying  lethargy  of  a  nervous  fever  which  ensued,  spared 
her  the  agony  attending  her  brother's  funeral.  Nor  was  it 
till  Mr.  Morton's  kindness  had  installed  them  in  small 
but  comfortable  apartments  at  Brompton,  that  she  could 
in  any  way  rouse  herself  from  the  stupor  of  still  over 
powering  languor,  and  endeavor  to  resume  her  duties 
Her  former  pupils  she  had  of  course  been  compelled  to 
give  up,  both  from  her  illness  and  change  of  residence  , 
and  now,  though  scarcely  strong  enough  to  walk  the  length 
of  the  street,  she  was  tormented  with  the  anxious  desire  tc 
regain  emplojTnent.  In  vaui  Mrs.  Leslie  sought  to  con 
vince  her  of  the  impossibility,  and  to  persuade  her  it  was 
not  needed.  Florence  knew  that  the  continued  illness  of 
her  beloved  Walter  had  fearfully  dramed  their  little 
finances.  She  looked  on  her  mother,  and  shuddered  at 
the  very  thought  of  want  for  her.     But  how  could   she 


woman's  friendship.  169 

proceed  ?  And  in  this  emergency  she  applied  to  their 
friend,  Mr.  Morton.  He  heard  her  with  a  paternal  smile, 
but  told  her  she  was  too  late  ;  Minie  had  been  before  her, 
and  he  had  procured  her  pupils  for  singing  in  five  highly 
respectable  families,  in  addition  to  his  own.  And  Minie, 
clasping  her  arms  about  her  sister's  neck  implored  her  in 
bitter  tears  not  to  disapprove  of  the  plan  ;  she  was  in  perfect 
health,  and  had  never  known  what  illness  was. 

Florence  looked  on  that  sweet  face,  and  the  thought  of 
Walter,  of  his  love,  his  care,  his  terrors  for  that  lovely  girl, 
mingled  with  the  agonized  conviction  that  his  protection 
could  never  more  surround  her,  that  temptation  aiid  trial 
must  henceforth  be  endured  alone  ;  and  she  could  only  fold 
Minie  closer  and  closer  to  her  bosom  and  weep  ;  but  she 
did  not  deny  her  wishes.  Perhaps  she  felt  her  own  utter 
incapacity  for  exertion  ;  but  her  consent  Avas  only  given 
for  a  limited  time,  till  she  was  strong  enough  again  to 
work.  Mr.  Morton  promised  that  Minie  should  receive  all 
the  care  he  could  bestow  ;  but  even  in  the  few  weeks  of 
her  new  occupation  the  poor  girl  learned  to  know  the  truth 
of  Walter's  fears. 

Nor  did  the  task  Florence  imposed  on  herself,  of 
arranging  Walters  papers,  tend  to  aid  the  recovery  of 
mental  calm.  Morton,  indeed,  offered  to  do  this  for  her  ; 
but  mournfully  she  refused  :  painful  as  it  would  be,  there 
was  yet  a  sort  of  melancholy  consolation  in  guarding 
from  a  stranger's  eye  repositories  of  thought  which 
Walter  had  perhaps  conveyed  to  no  human  ear  ;  and  ere 
her  task  was  completed  she  rejoiced  in  her  decision. 
Amongst  fugitive  papers,  containing  alike  original  and 
selected  poetry,  manuscript  volumes  of  prose  sketches 
and  often  the  private  journal  of  his  thoughts  and  feelings 
over  which  his  sister's  tears  fell  thick  and  unrestrainedly, 
there  was  one  secret  revealed  that  had  never  passed  those 
lips,  not  even  to  his  treasured  Florence — a  portrait  of  a 
fair  and  lovely  girl,  which  he  had  sketched  from  memory, 
and  which  a  few  subjoined  lines  declared  llie  object  of 
his  love.  Yes,  wedded  as  he  had  seemed  to  his  glorious 
gifts,  Walter  had  loved  ;  and  innumerable  lines  of  his 
latter  poems  returned  to  his  sister's  recollection  to  confimi 
this,  and  reveal  the  secret  magic  which  had  kindled  his 

15 


170  woman's  friendship 

wondrous  gift  to  life.  But  whom  that  portrait  represeute^d 
Florence  knew  not ;  the  simple  word,  "  Lucy,"  was  all  it 
bore,  and  never  to  her  recollection,  had  Walter  breathed 
the  name.  And  there  were  passages  alike  in  prose  and 
verse,  in  which,  as  if  for  relief,  he  had  thrown  his  own 
burdened  soul ;  and  by  them  it  seemed  to  Florence  that 
his  love  was  as  unknown  to  its  object  as  to  every  other. 
Poverty,  station,  appeared  the  impassable  barriers,  and 
then  she  understood  the  wdld  yearnings  to  see  his  work  in 
print,  that  it  might  reach  her  hand,  and  call  forth  re- 
sponses from  her  heart. 

"Yes,"  one  paper  ran,  "yes,  beloved  and  lovely  one, 
thine  eyes  may  glisten  with  sweet  tears  as  thou  lookest  on 
my  page,  and  thou  wilt  not  know  how  deeply,  how  in- 
divisibly  thine  image  inspired  the  poem  thou  readest. 
"Will  any  sweet  spirit  vrhisper,  'tis  the  voice  of  one  that 
loved  thee,  would  have  died  for  thee  ?  Thou  wilt  mingle 
with  the  wealthy  and  the  gay-;  thy  smile  will  beam  on 
some  dearer  one.  Thou  wilt,  thou  must  be  loved — and  I 
— oh !  to  pass  away  from  the  world  that  holds  thee, 
without  one  regrettmg  tear,  one  sigh — better,  better  this 
than  hve  on,  and  know  I  can  be  naught  to  thee  ?  Why 
does  poverty  fling  liis  links  of  ice  around  my  soul — 
chainmg  me  down  to  earth  ?  Why  is  wealth  so  un- 
equally divided,  that  some  must  droop  and  die  in  penury 
and  woe,  and  others — God — God  of  mercy !  pardon  thou 
my  murmuring — lift  up  this  bruised  soul  to  thee." 

And  the  paper  was  stamed  and  blotted  as  by  burning 
tears.     And  then  again  she  read — 

"Death!  is  it  so?  Yes.  I  know  that  I  must  die — and 
wherefore  do  J  shudder  and  quail  ?  Can  it  be  that  I  have 
hoped  that  talent  might  do  its  work,  and  make  me  in 
time  even  worthy  to  be  loved  by  lier — that  poesy  should 
bring  the  poet  forward,  and  even  the  rich,  the  noble  would 
court  Walter  ?  Down  with  the  delusive  hope  !  I  may 
not  live — oh!  why  does  submission  fly  me,  when  I 
thought  myself  resigned — thought  that  I  loved  my  God  ' 
Earth,  earth,  when  thou  boldest  love,  how  may  we  turn 
from  thee — without  grief?" 

Another  paper,  of  a  later  date,  bore  words  such  aa 
these — 


woman's  friendship.  .  171 

"  It  is  over — day  by  day  draws  me  nearer  tlie  final 
coal— and,  blessed  be  my  Father,  I  can  die  without  a  pang. 
She  will  look  upon  my  work,  and  love  perchance  its 
author — ay,  even  drop  a  tear  that  he  hath  gone  so  soon.  I 
shall  be  with  her  in  her  private  hours,  none  other  shall 
divide  her  thoughts  with  me.  Perchance  her  lip  may  give 
new  music  to  my  words,  her  voice  breathe  them  in  song, 
her  heart  retain  and  love  them.  Oh  !  that  the  freed  spirit 
might  hover  round  thee,  beloved  one,  in  those  moments,  till 
poetry  may  have  more  than  earthly  power.  Perchance  it 
will.     "  Oh,  the  deep,  voiceless  bliss,  if  such  may  be  !" 

There  were  many  other  similar  papers,  and  Florence 
felt  till  that  moment  she  had  never  before  knovra.  the 
fullness  of  his  woe.  At  all  times  it  needs  composure  to 
look  over  the  records  of  the  dead  ;  they  seem  to  speak  in 
spiritual  tones,  to  print  themselves  upon  the  heart. 
Every  paper  is  sanctified,  every  line  is  holy  ;  and  often  and 
often  they  tell  of  suffering  and  of  worth,  which  we  knew 
not  until  then ;  and  we  mourn,  that  the  feelings  they 
excite  must  lie  withering  on  our  own  hearts,  for  those  round 
whom  they  yearn  to  twine  have  passed  away  forever. 

Florence  trusted  neither  her  own  nor  Mrs.  Leslie's 
composure  sufficiently  to  impart  the  secret  of  those  papers  ; 
she  could  only  throw  herself  on  her  mother's  neck,  and 
sob  forth,  "Walter — some  future  time — his  papers  are 
in  that  chest."  And  Mrs.  Leslie  grasped  her  hand  con- 
vulsively without  the  utterance  of  a  single  word.  She  had 
never  shed  a  tear  from  the  hour  her  boy  departed. 

Nor  did  Minie's  buoyant  spirit  rally ;  she  seemed  op- 
pressed as  by  some  heavy  gloom,  even  more  than  by  her 
brother's  death  ;  her  child-like  trust  in  Lady  St.  Maur's 
continued  regard  was  failing  ;  she  had  seen  the  Countess's 
arrival  announced,  the  new  honors  bestowed  ;  read  day 
after  day  her  name  at  some  fete  or  drawing-room,  and  at 
length  her  guileless  spirit  began  to  incline  to  her  sister's 
and  brother's  belief,  that  all  was  indeed  at  an  end  between 
them.  Oh  !  how  bitterly  painful  is  the  first  clouding  over 
of  youth's  sweet  visions,  the  first  crushing  blight  of  confi- 
dence and  love,  the  first  consciousness  that  life  is  not  so  fair 
and  bright,  nor  friends  so  true,  as  we  have  pictured  ! 

Many   thoughts    were   busy   in  the   heart   of  Florence 


172 


WOMAN    S    FRIENDSHIP. 


tlioufsh  she  spoke  them  not ;  strength  was  gradually  ro« 
turning,  but  the  disinclination  for  all  exertion,  the  almost 
loathing  with  which,  in  her  weakened  frame  and  aching 
heart,  she  thought  of  resuming  the  tasteless  toil  of  teach- 
ing, it  seemed  as  if  she  could  not  overcome.  How  was 
fihe,  Avhere  was  she  to  seek  employment  ?  The  voice  ol 
duty,  so  peculiarly  powerful  in  her  heart,  repeatedly 
prompted,  "  Write  to  Lady  St.  Maur  ;  she  has  influence, 
and  will  aid  you."  But  she  felt  as  if  to  do  so  was  im- 
possible ;  she  shrunk  in  agony  from  appealing  for  herself, 
where  the  appeal  for  her  brother  had  been  so  utterly  dis- 
regarded ;  yet  she  thought  it  pride,  and  condemned  it 
severely.  In  the  state  of  physical  sufiering  to  which  she 
she  was  reduced  she  felt  as  if  the  very  support  of  self- 
esteem  had  departed  from  her  ;  that  to  meet  or  have 
any  intercourse  with  Lady  St.  Maur,  now  that  their  social 
position  was  so  widely  severed,  she  could  r  at  endure ; 
shrinking  more  and  more  mto  herself,  affliction  might  have 
painfully  tarnished  the  beautiful  character  of  Florence,  had 
she  not  been  once  more  roused  by  the  call  of  aHection,  a 
call  never  heard  by  her  in  vain. 

Notwithstanding  all  Morton's  benevolent  care  and  ex- 
ertion, it  became  more  and  more  evident  that  Minie's 
beauty  and  extraordinary  voice  were  exposing  her  to  in- 
creased amioyance,  the  more  widely  she  became  known  : 
that  she  was  poor  and  unprotected  only  gave  license  to 
the  gay,  frivolous  idlers,  who  thronged  her  path  to  the 
houses  she  visited.  Address  her  they  did  not,  but  even  her 
guileless  nature  could  not  remain  insensible  to  their  openly 
avowed  admiration  ;  and  she  was  too  painfully  annoyed 
to  conceal  it  as  efiectually  as  she  wished  from  her  sister. 

It  was  one  lovely  afternoon  in  the  beginning  of  August 
that  Florence  sat  watching  her  mother's  couch,  wrapt  m 
thought  too  painful,  too  intense,  to  admit  of  her  reading,- 
as  she  had  intended.  Mrs.  Leslie  had  been  more  than 
usually  unwell,  and,  to  satisfy  her  daughters,  had  promised 
to  remain  quietly  in  her  room.  How  long  Florence  thu.q 
sat  she  knew  not ;  but,  fearful  lest  her  resolution  should 
fail,  she  rose,  and  moving  softly  and  lightly  so  as  not  to 
disturb  her  mother,  procured  writing  materials  and  sat 
do^n  to  her  task.     But   she  could  go  no  further ;  the  pen 


woman's  friendship.  173 

restevl  on  the  paper,  and  her  brain  felt  dull  and  heavy  with 
its  press  of  thought.  How  even  to  address  the  Countess 
St.  Maur  she  knew  not ;  every  term  she  thought  of  was 
too  familiar  or  too  formal.  Her  vivid  fancy  transported 
her  back  to  days  when  the  very  thought  of  communicating 
to  Lady  Ida  all  her  girlish  joys  and  feelings  was  such  hap- 
piness— why,  why  was  she  so  changed?  And  dropping 
the  pen,  she  leaned  her  brow  on  her  hands,  and  wept 
bitterly.  At  that  moment  she  felt  Minie's  arm  thrown 
round,  endeavoring  to  unclasp  her  hands  with  such  a  joy- 
ous whisper,  that  she  looked  up  startled. 

"  Go  down  stairs,  Florence  ;  you  are  wanted  in  the  par- 
lor. Hush  !  not  a  question,  or  we  shall  disturb  mamma — 
you  must  go — ^indeed  you  are  wanted.  I  will  stay  here. 
JO,  there's  a  good  girl." 

In  vain  Florence  looked  the  entreaties  why  she  was 
wanted  ;  Minie  was  inexorable,  and  hastily  bathing  her 
eyes,  she  descended  to  their  little  sitting-room.  A  lady  was 
looking  intently  on  poor  "Walter's  last  work,  "  The  Poet's 
Home,"  which  was  framed  and  hung  up  opposite  the  door, 
so  that  her  face,  as  Florence  entered,  was  turned  from  her. 
She  knew  not  why,  but  power  deserted  her  for  the  moment, 
and  a  gust  of  wind  impelled  the  door  from  her  trembling 
hold,  and  closod  it  with  sufficient  noise  to  make  the  stranger 
turn. 

"  Florence  !  my  dear  Florence  !  I  am  so  glad  that  I  have 
found  you,"  were  the  kindly  words  that  greeted  her  ;  but 
she  scarcely  knew  their  sense,  she  only  heard  the  voice, 
which  even  more  than  fsatures  has  power  to  stir  the  inmost 
Boul  with  memory  ;  and  felt  that  the  arm  of  Lady  St.  Maur 
was  thrown,  as  in  former  days,  caressingly  around  her — her 
kiss  was  on  her  chsek. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

Misconceptions  explained. — Florence  and  ida  friends  once 

MORE. 

It  Avas  several   minutes   before  Florence  could   regain 
composure.    Pale,  attenuated,  and  careworn,  Lady  St.  Maur 


17-^1  woman's   friendship 

could  barely  recognise  the  laughing,  animated  girl  whom 
she  had  last  seen  ;  and  well  could  she  understand  how  her 
unexpected  appearance  would  recall  the  magic  of  the  past, 
and  so  render  the  present  still  more  sad.  As  Florence 
Bought  to  excuse  her  emotion,  by  allusion  to  her  late 
illness  and  the  weakness  it  had  left,  there  was  a  slight  con- 
straint in  her  manner,  almost  unknow^n  to  herself,  but  per- 
ceptible to  the  Countess,  whose  ready  mind  at  once  sus- 
pected its  cause.  "  Do  not  apologize  for  natural  feeling, 
dearest  Florence,"  she  replied  ;  "I  am  nat  so  changed  as  to 
shrink  from  its  display,  or  to  wish  for  more  restraint  from 
you  than  when  we  parted  :  you  had  then  only  joy  to  feel  and 
impart ;  believe  me,  I  can  feel  for  and  sympathize  with 
you  equally  in  sorrow."  Florence  looked  up  eagerly,  but 
the  words  she  sought  to  speak  died  on  her  hps.  "-Flo- 
rence I"  continued  the  Countess,  taking  both  her  hands, 
and  speakmg  very  earnestly,  "there  is  sometliing  AATong 
between  us — some  mystery^ — some  misconception,  which 
I  am  here  solely  to  remove.  Yoic  are  changed,  for  you 
are  doubting  me :  I  am  not ;  for,  though  appearances 
have  been  strong  against  you,  I  ^viU.  not  believe  them  till 
confirmed  by  your  own  lips." 

"Appearances  against  me  I"  gasped  Florence,  hei 
cheek  blanching  and  her  lip  quivering  ;  "  what  can  you 
mean  ?" 

"  Why  have  you  not  Avritten  to  me  FJorence,  in  the 
heavy  cares  and  sorrows  which  you  have  been  enduring 
the  last  eighteen  months  ?  Why  did  you  not  obey  my 
last  often-repeated  injunction — that  if  my  influence  could 
ever  serve  you,  to  write  to  me  directly  ?  I  know  enough 
of  your  sad  history  to  be  convinced  that  you  have  needed 
that  influence  more  painfully  than  when  I  desired  you  to 
claim  it  I  imagined  possible  ;  yet  you  have  never  written. 
Was  this  just  to  me  or  to  yourself?  Have  you  not  per- 
mitted sensitiveness  and  pride  to  come  between  your  heart 
and  my  friendship  ?  Even  though  you  did  not  receive  my 
letter  to  you  on  your  heavy  loss,  Avas  that  enough  for  you 
to  lose  all  confidence,  as  never  to  wa'ite  in  still  increasing 
sorrow  ?  Surely,  surely  affection  must  have  been  failing 
^s  well  as  confidence  ;  you  did  not  love  me  well  enough  to 
auk  my  sjTupathy  !" 


WOMAN    S   FRIENDSHIP,  175 

Vainly  did  Florence  endeavor  to  reply ;  a  mist  seemed 
to  have  so  folded  round  her  faculties,  that  both  past  suffer- 
ing and  present  sensation  were  hke  the  distorted  imagina- 
tion of  a  fever  dream.  Had  she  not  written — had  she  not 
appealed  to  tha.t  friendship  and  mfluence — had  she  not 
endured,  not  only  the  misery  of  hope  deferred,  but  of  un- 
answered confidence  ?  And  then,  with  these  reproachful, 
but  still  kindly  words,  came  the  thought  that  she  had  in- 
deed failed  in  affection  ;  for,  why  had  she  not  so  trusted 
as  to  write  again  ?  She  pressed  her  hands  on  her  burning 
forehead  as  in  sudden  pain. 

"  Florence,  dearest  Florence  !  I  did  not  mean  W)  pain 
you  thus,"  exclaimed  Lady  St.  Maur,  anxiously.  '*  1 
have  been  hurt  and  annoyed  at  your  silence  ;  but  perhaps, 
after  all,  you  have  had  equal  cause  to  be  pained  with  me. 
Have  you  ever  written  to  me  ?  Your  answer  may  remove 
all  this  misconception  ;  for,  if  you  have  asked  my  influence 
and  friendship,  and  received  no  answer,  I  can  no  longer 
wonder  at  either  your  silence  or  constraint.  Am  I  right 
now,  dearest  ?  Only  speak,  for  I  cannot  bear  to  see  you 
thus." 

And  Florence  did  speak  ;  for  the  mist  seemed  melting 
from  her  brain  ;  and  she  told  her  she  had  thought  and 
thought,  and  at  length  written,  and  trusted  and  hoped  ; 
even  when  weeks  dwindled  into  months,  and  months  into 
a  year,  how  she  had  felt  that  she  could  not  write  again  ; 
but  that  now  it  did  indeed  seem  all  pride  and  doubt  which 
had  withheld  her.     Why,  why  did  she  not  write  again  ? 

"  Because  you  could  not  believe  that  important  letter 
should  be  the  only  one  to  miscarry,  and  imagined  that  I 
had  changed.  I  was  wrong  to  reproach  you,  dearest 
Florence  :  you  had  not  Imown  or  proved  me  long  enough, 
to  dismiss  such  too  natural  suspicion  then,  as  I  hope  you 
will  henceforward.  Do  not  grieve  thus,  love,  nor  think,  as 
I  know  you  do,  that  had  that  letter  been  received,  or  you 
had  written  again,  that  your  heaviest  trial  might  have  been 
averted.  Let  us  only  rejoice  that  we  may  love  each  other 
still."  The  voice  of  sympathy  and  consolation  so  long 
unheard,  had  its  effect,  and  after  a  brief  pause  Lady  St. 
Maui  continued — "  I  am  going  to  ask  you  some  strange 
luestion,?,  Florence,  but  you  will  forgive  them  when  you 


176  woman's  friendship. 

know  tlicir  reason.     Is  there,  or  was  there,  ever  a  peison 
bearing  your  own  name  ? 

Florence  looked  surprised,  and  answered  in  the  negative 

"  Not  a  Flora  or  Florence  Leslie  ?" 

"Flora  Leslie? — yes." 

"  A  relation  of  Mrs.  Rivers,  and   an  inmate  of  Wocd 
lands?" 

"  Yes,"  repUed  Florence,  more  and  more  surprised. 

"  Did  you  know  her  ?" 

•'  Intimately.  My  visits  to  "Woodlands  were  nominally 
as  her  companion." 

"  And  why,  in  your  letters  to  me  from  Woodlands,  did 
you  never  mention  her  ?" 

"  Because  we  had  so  very  little  in  common,  nor  was  she 
at  all  a  person  I  thought  likely  to  interest  you." 

"  Why,  what  sort  of  person  w^as  she,  then?"  Florence 
hesitated.  "  Tell  me  her  whole  story,  my  dear  Florence  ; 
I  wish  most  particularly  to  know  it.  Have  no  scruples  ; 
you  will  do  her  no  injury  with  me." 

Thus  entreated,  Florence  oheyed,  avoiding  as  much  as 
she  could  any  censorious  observations,  but  revealing  con- 
cisely and  simply  the  whole  system  of  deceit,  coquetry, 
and  intrigue  formerly  carried  on  by  Flora — her  elopement, 
and  the  effect  it  had  on  Mrs.  Rivers,  and  her  own  conse- 
quent detention  at  "VYoodlands. 

"  Had  you  any  reason  to  believe  that  she  bore  you  any 
personal  iU-will  ?"  inquired  Lady  St.  Maur,  who  had 
listened  to  the  recital  wdth  an  interest  Florence  could  not 
define. 

"  Only  from  my  compelled  agency  in  the  circumstance 
I  have  related  to  you.  She  professed  the  contrary,  though 
then  I  could  not  believe  in  such  professions ;  but  I  did  hex 
wrong,  I  beheve,  for  I  have  not  experienced  any  unldndness 
from  her." 

Lady  St.  Maur  put  her  arm  involuntarily  round  her 
young  companion  at  these  words,  her  eyes  glistening  as 
she  thought  how  that  gentle,  unsuspicious  nature  had  been 
deceived. 

.  "  She  has  done  you  injury,  my  Florence,  by  her  very 
Eimilarity  of  name." 

"  But  that  she  could  not  help,"  replied  Florence^  shnply. 


woman's  friendship.  17T 

"She  could  help  the  shameful  falsehood  of  signing 
f  loreiice  instead  of  Flora  Leslie,  as  I  know  she  has  done  to 
more  than  one  individual — a  deceit  which  no  doubt  origi- 
nated the  annoyance  and  pain  of  your  unjust  expulsion 
from  Mrs.  Russel's  family." 

"Mrs.  Russel  I"  repeated  Florence  in  extreme  astonish- 
ment. 

"  Mrs.  Russel,  dearest.  How  do  you  think  I  could  have 
found  you,  if  I  had  not  made  inquiries  ?  One  more  ques- 
tion— are  there  any  other  points  of  resemblance  between 
Mrs.  Major  Hardwicke  (thank  heaven  she  can  do  you 
no  more  injury  as  Flora  Leslie)  and  yourself  besides 
name  ?" 

"  We  are  very  unlike,"  answered  Florence,  simply. 

"  I  have  not  the  smallest  doubt  of  it,  my  love.  And  it 
will  be  a  direct  contradiction  to  the  theory  of  handwriting 
disclosing  character,  if  what  1  suspect  be  true.  Is  your 
handwriting  alike  ?" 

"  So  much  so,  with  a  very  trifling  effort  on  either  her 
part  or  mine,  that  even  mamma  has  scarcely  recognised  the 
one  from  the  other  ;  nay,  I  have  been  puzzled  once  or 
twice  myself  Why  do  you  ask,  dearest  Lady  St.  Maur  ? 
tell  me,  pray  tell  me  !  It  cannot  be  that  she  has  sought  to 
injure  me  with  you,"  exclaimed  Florence,  a  light  flashing 
on  her  mind  ;  and  she  looked  up  in  the  Countess's  face  pale 
with  terror. 

"  She  has  not  injured  you  with  me,  love  ;  I  am  still  your 
friend,  as  I  trust  you  will  find  me  ;  but  that  she  has  dor.e 
you  a  cruel  injury  is^  I  fear,  too  true.  Painful  as  the  dis- 
covery will  be  to  you,  my  Florence.  I  believe  it  had  better 
be  revealed.  You  tell  me  you  wrote  to  me  from  Woodlands 
on  the  24th  of  July,  and  could  not  imagine  why  that  most 
important  letter  should  be  the  only  one  to  miscarry  ;  it 
would  not  have  miscarried,  (Florence  started  and  gasped 
for  breath,)  for  its  substitute  reached  me  in  perfect  safety. 
This  was  the  letter  I  received.  I  will  not  do  you  such  in- 
justice as  even  to  ask  you  if  it  be  yours." 

"  Almost  choked  with  strong  emotion,  Florence  grasped 
the  offered  letter,  opened  it,  and  read  ;  and  dropping  it, 
gazed  wildly  into  the  face  of  Lady  St.  Maur,  faintly  mur- 
muring— "  Walter  I  Walter  !  you  were  the  victim  1"  threw 


178-  woman's  friendship. 

herself  on   the  Countess's  neck  and  burst  into  passionate 
tears. 

Lady  St.  Maur  permitted  her  to  weep,  even  while  she 
Bought  with  earnest  tenderness  to  remove  the  agonized 
impression  that,  had  her  own  letter  been  received,  Walter's 
fate  might  have  been  averted.  It  was  no  difficulty  for  her 
to  use  the  language  of  that  spiritual  consolation  which 
alone  can  soothe ;  for  rehgion  was  to  her  the  very  breath 
of  her  existence — not  in  word,  but  in  deed  ;  not  in  form, 
but  in  thought ;  impossible  to  be  described,  but  so  in- 
fusing her  simplest  word  and  most  trifling  action,  that  the 
most  heedless  felt  its  influence,  though  its  origin  was  in- 
visible. It  was  easy  for  such  a  mind  and  heart  truly  to 
console,  and  lead  the  bruised  spirit  to  its  only  resting- 
place.  And  as  Florence  gradually  recovered.  Lady  St. 
Maur  entered  more  particularly  into  the  reason  of  her 
questionings  ;  narrating  all  that  had  passed  both  in  Italy 
and  England,  to  mislead  and  mystify  her ;  avoiding  all 
which  could  give  unnecessary  pain,  by  exalting  her  own 
merits  in  not  doubtmg  her  when  every  one  else  did, 
but  simply  stating  facts — the  combination  of  circumstances 
which  had  prevented  her  applying  by  letter  for  the 
meaning  of  an  epistle  which  from  the  first  she  had 
doubted  as  coming  from  Florence.  So  that  even  while 
deeply  wounded,  as  she  could  not  fail  to  be,  at  the  dis- 
covery of  such  cruel  injury,  she  was  inexpressibly  soothed 
by  the  conviction  of  the  confidence  and  affection  felt  towards 
her  by  the  friend  she  had  so  long  loved. 

Lady  St.  Maur  did  not  leave  without  seeing  Mrs.  Leslie, 
and  •  she  was  shocked  and  grieved  at  the  change  she 
beheld,  too  forcibly  impressing  the  conviction,  that  all  of 
sorrow  for  the  sisters  was  not  yet  past.  The  widow  was 
pamfully  agitated.  "  The  strong  man  and  the  beautiful 
ahke  are  gone,"  she  said,  after  a  pause,  and  in  a  tone  that 
thrilled  through  her  hearers  ;  "  and  I,  the  weak,  the  suf- 
fering, the  useless,  am  still  spared.  Yet  who  may  ques- 
tion the  decrees  of  the  Eternal  ?  My  husband  and  my 
child  are  with  Him,  and  He  will  take  me  to  them  when 
He  deems  it  best." 

The  young  Countess  listened  reverentially,  her  whole 
maimer  betraying  how  completely  she  felt  that  sorrow  and 


woman's  friendship.  179 

BufTering  had  sanctified  and  raised  the  widow,  much 
higher  in  the  scale  of  immortal  being  than  rank  or  wealth 
And  hundreds  might  have  envied  the  feelings  of  pure  and 
blissful  satisfaction  with  which,  after  a  very  lengthened 
visit,  Lady  St  Maur  returned  to  her  own  lordly  home,  find- 
ing an  increase  of  individual  happiness  in  her  unceasing 
thoughts  and  care  for  the  happiness  of  others. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

7HE   SCENE    IS   CHANGED. — LADY  IDA's   PLANS. — THE   SECRET 
STILL. 

In  less  than"  three  months,  the  position  of  the  Leslie 
family,  both  domestic  and  social,  was  so  changed,  that 
had  it  not  been  for  one  sad  thought,  their  past  sufferings 
would  have  seemed  a  passing  dream.  But  who,  however 
sanctified  and  spiritualized  by  true  piety,  can  yet  entirely 
subdue  the  anguish  of  bereavement,  or  realize  what  they 
at  some  time  most  deeply  feel,  that  the  fate  of  the  beloved 
departed  in  such  undying  fehcity,  it  would  indeed  be  selfish 
love  to  call  them  back  once  more.  But  Mrs.  Leslie  was 
not  one  to  undervalue  present  blessings  because  they  had 
come  too  late  for  him  to  whom,  they  would  indeed  have 
ministered  such  joy.  Minie  had  no  more  need  to  leave  the 
safety  of  her  lowly  home ;  and  Florence,  her  noble  Flo- 
rence, was  sought  for,  loved,  cherished,  as  her  gentle  vir- 
tues claimed. 

The  Countess  St.  Maur's  friendship,  like  her  benevo- 
lence, was  of  no  passive  nature.  Convinced  herself  that 
not  a  shadow  of  suspicion  could  attach  itself  to  the  con- 
duct of  Florence,  she  proved  her  innocence  to  Lady  Mary, 
the  Earl,  and  his  mother,  by  bringing  her  and  Captain 
Camden  (Avho  had  returned  from  Malta  with  his  regiment) 
unexpectedly  together,  a  manoeuvre  insisted  upon  by 
Alfred  Melford,  who  introduced  the  captain  for  the  pur- 
pose, and  declared  that  the  mamier  of  their  meeting  must 
confirm  or  deny  Miss  Leslie's  identity  with  the  coquette 
of  Winchester  far  more  completely  than  any  thing,  else. 
The  gallant  captain  certainly  started  and  colored  at  tho 


180  woman's  friendship 

name,  but  recovered  himself"  the  instant  that  he  glanced 
at  its  unknown  bearer;  and  Florence's  calm  and  uncon- 
cerned bow  when  he  Avas  presented  to  her,  with  some 
degree  of  cmpressement  by  Melford,  must  have  convinced 
the  most  suspicious  that  she  had  never  seen  him  before, 
much  less  carried  on  the  correspondence  of  which  she 
was  accused. 

Lady  Mary  was  highly  indignant  that  the  Countess 
should  have  thought  any  such  proof  necessary  ;  she  had 
already  met  Florence  with  extended  hand  and  cordial 
smile,  her  prejudice  having  completely  vanished  from  the 
time  Melford  had  so  eloquently  repeated  Mrs.  Everett's 
narrative.  Whether  liis  eloquence  had  any  thing  to  do 
with  it,  we  will  not  pretend  to  say  ;  completely  a  creature 
of  impulse,  she  was  now  as  warm  in  the  cause,  as  she  had 
before  been  cool.  Minie's  excessive  lovehness  had  irre- 
sistibly attracted  her,  and  innumerable  plans  for  her 
making  a  proper  use  of  that  beauty  and  splendid  voice,  by 
an  introduction  to  the  highest  circles,  which  she  would 
take  care  to  bring  about,  and  so  making  a  match,  of  such 
tdat,  as  to  excite  the  envy  of  the  whole  fashionable  world , 
plans  we  need  scarcely  say,  completely  shattered  by  the 
positive  disapproval  of  the  Countess  St.  Maur,  who  in- 
sisted that  her  mother's  roof  was  the  best  place  for  one 
so  lovely.  It  required  no  small  portion  of  dispassionate 
arguments,  on  the  part  of  the  Countess,  to  bring  hei 
friend  to  reason,  and  convince  her,  that  she  could  mate- 
rially aid  to  the  happiness  of  her  beautiful  favorite, 
without  bringing  her  so  unduly  forward.  It  was  strange, 
perhaps,  that  with  her  secret  feelings  towards  Melford, 
she  did  not  fear  to  bring  Minie  so  forward  ;  but  Lady 
Mary  had  not  such  an  unworthy  emotion  in  her  nature. 
She  was  becoming  more  and  more  conscious  of  very  strong 
regard,  and  a  most  earnest  longing  in  the  very  midst  o\ 
her  badinage  and  constant  quarrelings,  that  Alfred  Melford 
would  find  something  in  her  to  approve  and  respect,  aa 
much  as  he  did  in  his  cousin  Ida  ;  whether  he  did  or  not, 
she  could  not  feel  quite  sure,  yet  she  would  no  more  have 
descended  to  the  petty  meanness  of  decrying,  or  concealing 
the  beauty  and  worth  of  another,  than  she  could  have  be* 
trayed,  by  the  faintest  sign  or  word,  her  secret  love. 


woman's  friendship.  181 

To  very  many  persons,  situated  as  was  Lady  St.  Maur, 
the  means  of  effectually  serving  Florence  would  have  been 
Bufliciently  difficult  as  to  prevent  the  exertion  required. 
To  provide  employment  in  their  owai  establishment  would 
be  impossible,  because  it  would  be  ver}^  disagreeable  to 
treat  as  an  inferior  one  with  whom  they  had  once  asso- 
ciated almost  upon*  equality ;  yet  if  they  occupied  the 
position  of  companion  or  governess,  it  would  be  difficult  to 
do  otherwise. 

The  Lady  St.  Maur's  notions  were,  by  a  certain  set, 
considered  very  nearly  akin  to  insanity,  and  only  endured, 
because  of  that  indescribable  something,  which,  when  in 
her  presence,  none  could  resist,  was  a  matter  of  very  little 
importance  either  to  herself  or  her  family  ;  but  never  did 
she  value  her  rank  and  influence  so  much,  as  when  she 
felt  how  completely  they  raised  her  above  such  opinions, 
leading  others  often  to  do  good  deeds,  not  for  their  own 
worth,  but  because  so  did  the  Countess  St.  Maur. 

Her  first  care  was  to  endeavor  to  restore  the  elasticity 
of  health,  which  Florence  had  not  felt  for  many  long 
months,  and  in  some  of  the  pleasant  drives,  tete-d-tete, 
which,  combining  pure  air  and  mental  recreation,  were 
gratefully  beneficial,  she  drew  from  Florence  her  own 
Avishes  and  plans. 

"  But  my  dear  girl,  Minie  appears  much  more  fitted 
than  yourself  for  the  arduous  toil  of  instruction,"  the 
Countess  one  day  said  ;  "  she  has  stronger  health  and  better 
spirits,  and  may  be  sure  of  a  sufficiency  of  pupils,  why  not 
change  your  respective  duties  ?" 

"  Because,  Lady  St.  Maur,  I  pledged  myself  years  ago 
never  to  lei;  Minie  leave  her  mother." 

"  But  are  you  not  making  an  unnecessary  sacrifice, 
Florence  ?     Minie  does  not  dislike  the  life  she  leads." 

"  Only  because  it  allows  me  to  remain  at  home.  But 
when  I  remember  how  Walter  shrunk  in  agony  from  such 
a  life  for  Minie,  how  my  father's  heart  would  have  broken, 
could  he  have  seen  his  darling  exposed  to  the  rude  worle 
as  she  is  now,  I  cannot  let  her  continue.  Besides  it  is 
unjust  ;  when  I  found  myself,  in  conjunction  with  my 
brother,  as  representatives  of  our  lamented  father,  I  knew 
that  all  our  own  Httle  fortiine  must  be  sacrificed  ;  but 
16 


182  woman's     FRIENDSIIir. 

Minio  and  my  mother  were  spared  this.  How  then  can  1 
remain  idle,  when  I,  in  fact,  am  the  only  one  called  upon 
to  work  ?" 

"  And  can  nothing  change  this  resolution,  Florence  ?  Do 
duty  and  incUnation  both  point  the  same  way  ?" 

"  They  will,  I  hope,  in  time.  I  dare  not  answer  that 
tliey  do  now  ;  many,  many  feelings  must  rise  up  to  cause 
a  strife  between  them." 

"  Amongst  which,  not  the  least  painful  is,  that  as  depen- 
dent, chained  to  one  employment  day  after  day,  }low  can. 
the  Countess  St.  Maur  be  to  Florence  Leslie  as  she  is  now  ? 
and  it  is  hard  that  circumstances  should  again  throw  a 
barrier  between  her  and  the  little  unselfish  heart  which, 
through  years  of  apparent  unkindness  and  neglect,  has 
loved  her  so  truely.  Am  I  very  conceited,  Florence,  or  do 
I  read  aright  ?" 

Florence  looked  up,  her  eyes  swelling  in  large  tears,  but 
she  did  not  attempt  reply. 

*'  Now,  suppose  independence  could  be  made  your  own, 
removing  all  necessity  for  you  to  leave  your  mother,  would 
you  accept  it  ?" 

"  Not  while  I  have  health  and  power  to  labor,"  replied 
Florence,  firmly ;  "  unless  it  came  from  a  near  and  dear 
relative.  Such  a  one  I  have  not  in  the  wide  world.  No 
— however  I  might  love  the  friend  who  would  do  this,  that 
love  would  become  a  weight  instead  of  joy.  I  should  be 
depressed  and  burdened,  lowered  in  my  own  estimation, 
and  surely  in  that  of  others.  I  would  retain  my  own  in- 
tegritj"  and  independence,  and  I  should  feel  as  if  both 
were  compromised  in  accepting  such  an  obligation.  II 
this  be  too  much  pride,  forgive  it,  dear  Lady  St.  Maur.  I 
could  not  retain  your  esteem  and  regard,  did  I  feel  other- 
wise." 

"It  is  I  who  must  ask  forgiveness,  dearest  Florence. 
I  have  been  trying  you  too  severely,  but  I  wished  to  con- 
vince my  reason  before  I  acted  on  my  feelings.  Now 
listen  to  my  plans,  and  perhaps  duty  and  inclination  may 
be  more  closely  connected  than  you  fancy." 

And  she  proceeded  to  state  her  wishes  that  Florence 
should  become  an  inmate  of  her  family.  Not  as  a  useless 
member,  she  added  with  a  smile,  for  that  she  saw  Florence 


woman's     FRIENDSHir.  183 

w  as  much  too  proud  to  be  ;  but  to  be  useful  in  a  multitude 
of  ways,  partly  as  Lady  Helen's  companion ;  for  since 
their  arrival  in  London,  that  lady,  not  wishing  to  enter 
into  the  vortex  of  fashionable  life,  so  incumbent  on  her 
son  and  daughter,  was  in  consequence  obliged  at  times  to 
be  left  alone  ;  and  partly  to  superintend  the  education  of 
Constance  St.  Maur,  the  little  girl,  it  may  be  remembered, 
left  by  the  last  Baron  St.  Maur,  under  the  guardianship  of 
his  heir  and  Lady  Ida.  From  what  she  had  seen  of  tliis 
child,  the  Countess  said  she  was  being  completely  ruined 
by  the  foohsli  fondness  of  an  old  relative,  and  the  super- 
ficial education  of  a  professed  fashionable  estabhshment, 
that  she  had  not  intended  to  have  taken  her  so  young  from 
school,  but  on  consideration  had  determined  on  perform- 
ing her  promise  to  the  child's  father  to  the  utmost,  by  giving 
her  at  once  the  advantages  of  a  residence  under  her  own 
roof.  The  mere  drudgery  of  teaching  she  had  resolved 
should  not  devolve  on  Florence,  who,  she  was  convinced, 
had  not  physical  strength  for  it ;  but  she  wished  her  tc 
superintend  her  education,  to  instruct  the  heart  more 
than  the  head,  to  train  the  will  and  temper  yet  more  than 
the  mind  ;  to  do  this  for  Constance  now,  and  in  one  or 
two  years  more  for  her  own  darlmgs  Helen,  and  Ida,  whom 
she  and  the  Earl  would  trust  with  Florence  as  confidently 
and  securely  as  with  herself;  and  in  addition  to  all  this, 
she  laughingly  pursued,  resolved  on  checking  the  strong 
emotion  with  wliich  her  companion  sought  to  reply,  to  be 
sti^l  the  Countess's  friend,  and  m  that  character,  to  be 
called  upon  for  services  in  her  large  establishment  far  too 
numerous  to  name.  Would  these  momentous  duties  render 
her  a  sufficiently  useful  member  of  the  family,  to  receive 
whatever  salary  the  Countess  might  choose,  without  com- 
promise of  her  own  proud  independence. 

"  That  depends,"  replied  Florence,  with  a  smile  almost 
as  arch  as  those  of  former  years. 

"  Indeed  !  well  then.  Miss  Leslie,  you  are  to  please  to 
remember  that  firstly,  I  have  engaged  you,  not  for  one, 
but  for  a  variety  of  duties.  Secondly,  that  in  my  esta- 
bhshment you  will  incur  personal  expenses,  which  you 
would  not  mcur  at  home  ;  and,  lastly,  which  combmes  all 
the  rest,  my  will  is  law,  and  being  in  these  matters  incom- 


184  woman's   friendship. 

parably  wiser  than  yourself,  you  will  abide  by  my  decision 
Have  you  not  yet  Ibund  out,  Florence,"  she  continued  in 
her  own  tone,  "  that  I  have  a  will  of  my  own,  and,  in  con- 
sequence, hold  the  world's  supreme  authority  on  some 
things  in  most  supreme  contempt,  on  nothing  more  than  the 
manner  in  which  it  regards  those  invaluable  friends  to  whom 
we  intrust  the  moral  and  mental  training  of  our  children." 

Lady  St.  Maur  was  not,  however,  content  with  securing 
Florence's  personal  comfort  alone.  At  her  request.  Sir 
Charles  Brashleigh  visited  Mrs.  Leshe,  and  on  giving  his 
opinion  that  though  fearfully  shattered  by  anxiety  and 
trial,  and  the  victim  of  a  disease  in  itself  quite  incurable, 
the  pure  air  and  repose  of  the  country  would  be  far  more 
beneficial  than  a  residence  in  London.  A  beautiful  little 
cottage  on  their  estate  in  Warwickshire  was  offered  to 
Mrs,  Leslie  by  the  Earl,  to  occupy  either  as  a  yearly  tenant, 
or  on  lease,  whichever  she  might  prefer.  Its  greatest  at- 
traction, he  declares,  being  its  close  vicinity  to  Florence, 
who,  for  at  least  six  or  eight  months  in  the  year,  would 
be  living  at  Amersley  Hall,  not  ten  minutes'  walk  from  the 
cottage. 

"  The  tie  which  has  bound  you  so  closely  in  years  of 
suffering,  must  not  be  severed  in  joy,"  he  said,  with  feel- 
ing. "There  is  to  me  an  actual  sancity  in  family  love, 
which  I  wish  my  children  taught  by  example  as  well  aa 
precept ;  and  I  know  not  where  they  would  see  it  more 
forcibly  before  them  than  in  your  family." 

Lord  and  Lady  St.  Maur  knew  well  how  to  secure  gra 
titude,  for  Mrs.  Leslie  and  her  daughters  felt  raised,  not 
lowered,  by  the  appreciating  kindness  they  received 

On  the  night  after  their  taking  possession  of  their  little 
cottage  (Minie's  delight  not  a  little  increased  by  the 
plentiful  supply  of  ancient  and  modern  music  sent  down 
expressly  for  her  use)  Mrs.  Leslie  thought  long  and  pain- 
fully before  she  retired  to  rest.  Again  her  fearful  secret 
weighed  upon  her,  filling  her  with  reproach  and  dread. 
Associated  with  the  noblest  and  the  best — weave  round 
her  yet  more  strongly  Lady  St.  Maur's  regard.  Is  it  indeed 
wrong  to  permit  this,  and  still  be  silent  V  So  ran  hei 
mysterious  communings.  "  Yet  is  not  my  child  worthy  ? — 
»h,  how  nobly  worthy  I — and  shall  the  dark  truth  blight 


woman's  fr/endship.  185 

all  of  returning  happiness  ?  But  why  not  to  the  Countess 
alone  ? — would  ahe,  too,  look  on  my  poor  child  as  the 
outcast — the  victim  ?  How  may  I  risk  it  ?  "Why  did  I 
teach  those  infant  lips  to  call  me  by  so  sweet  a  name, 
which  is  in  truth  not  mine  ?  It  is  vain — ^vain  I  I  cannot 
recall  it  now.  If  concealment  he  sin — oh,  let  its  pmiish- 
ment  fall  on  me  ;  but  spare,  Father  of  Mercy  I  spare  my 
child  I" 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

THE    heart's    awakening. 


"  All  women  love,  have  loved,  or  are  capable  of 
loving,"  \Trote  an  elegant  delineator  of  the  female  heart ; 
and  though  Florence  had  arrived  at  the  ags  of  two-and- 
twenty,  and  we  have  not  once  Avritten  the  magic  word  in 
conjunotion  with  herself,  it  was  nor  that  she  was  incapable 
of  the  emotion,  but  that  she  had  never  associated  with 
any  one  at  all  likely  to  call  it  forth.  Her  life,  as  we  have 
seen,  had  passed  in  comparative  obscurity.  The  preca- 
rious health  of  her  mother  and  brother,  and  many  anxieties 
and  cares,  had  prevented  all  society.  Day  after  day,  often 
from  ten  till  six,  passed  in  the  mechanical  art  of  teaching, 
could  be  httle  productive  of  any  feeling  save  that  of  ex- 
hausting weariness,  which  yearns  only  for  rest  and  quiet- 
ness, seeming  to  shrink  even  from  the  idea  of  happiness,  if 
to  obtain  it  demanded  exertion.  No  reality,  therefore, 
,  could  take  possession  of  her  heart ;  but  fancy  had  not  been 
idle. 

Minie  had  very  often  wondered  what  there  could  be  in 
long  political  details  to  interest  her  sister,  and,  perhaps, 
Florence  sometimes  wondered  herself;  but  there  was  a 
spell  in  the  youthful  eloquence  of  Francis  Howard,  even 
ill  its  tame  repetition  by  the  press,  that  w^as  acknovdedged 
by  all  England.  Was  it  wonder,  then,  that  Florence, 
with  a  heart  and  mind  so  pecuharly  awake  to  beauty  and 
truth,  should  find  pleasure  in  its  perusal  ?  It  had  been 
©nly  the  last  session  that  young  Howard  had  actually 
16* 


166  woman's   friendship. 

been  ill  the  House,  and*  even  then,  by  a  most  unprece« 
dented  triumph  of  pubUc  favor,  for  he  had  barely  com- 
pleted his  twenty-first  year ;  but  his  great  talents,  his 
truth-seeking  and  truth-proclaiming  mind  had  through 
various  striking  pamphlets  already  made  him  known,  and 
it  was  long  extracts  from  these  which  had  so  often  riveted 
the  attention  and  admiration  of  Florence. 

In  the  happy  memories  of  Lady  Ida's  ball,  Francis 
Howard  had  always  stood  forth  conspicuous.  Florence's 
intuitive  perception  of  mental  nobility  had  even  then  dis- 
tinguished him  as  different  to  any  other  of  her  partners ; 
and  delighting  in  his  conversation  and  in  the  zest  with 
which,  like  herself,  he  entered  into  the  enjoyments  of  the 
evening,  had  danced  with  him  more  often  than  with  any 
one  else,  not  thinking  a  moment  of  his  attention  to  herseif, 
but  simply  that  it  was  a  pleasure  to  talk  to  so  mtelligent  a 
person. 

During  his  week's  sojourn  at  St.  John's  she  had  met 
him  often,  but  had  regarded  him  with  no  softer  feeling 
than  that  of  pleasant  companionship.  The  many  cares 
and  sorrows  wliich  afterwards  ensued  had,  as  it  were, 
riveted  these  memories  with  a  sweetness,  which  might  not 
have  been  the  case  had  she  been  more  happily  situated  in 
after  life.  The  name  of  Francis  Howard  had  attracted 
her,  and  she  read  the  various  notices  about  him  sim- 
ply from  the  memory  of  the  past.  The  more  she  read, 
the  more  she  felt  how  congenial  would  be  his  mind  and 
Walter's ;  that  Howard  would  indeed  have  given  her 
brother's  glorious  gift  its  due  ;  and  perhaps  this  knging 
had  added  to  the  bitterness  of  disappointment  at  Lady 
St.  Maur's  silence. 

Our  readers  will  perhaps  remember  that  young  Howard 
had  been  with  Melford  the  day  that  Florence  had  called 
on  the  Viscountess,  when  anxious  to  obtain  her  influence 
hi  procurmg  a  situation,  and  that  they  had  accompanied 
her  to  the  stage  on  her  way  home.  Melford  had  indeed 
been  the  principal  spokesman  on  that  occasion,  but  the 
countenance  of  Howard,  the  few  words,  but  most  re- 
spectful manner,  filling  up  the  image  which  his  eloquence, 
had  created  even  more  than  the  memory  of  the  past,  li^d 
lingered    strangely,    and    at    first  almost   cngrossingly,    on 


woman's  friendship.  187 

the  vivid  imagination  of  Florence,  adding  increase  of  eager- 
ness to  read  in  his  writings  the  reflection  of  his  mind.  How 
many,  many  hours  of  sohtude  at  Mrs.  Eussel's  heightened 
this  'illusion  in  exact  conformity  with  the  truth-hreathing 
sentence  which  we  quoted  at  the  commencement  of  thi.s 
chapter.  Florence  neither  loved,  nor  had  loved,  but  the 
vast  capabihties  in  her  heart  for  that  emotion,  occasioned 
the  creation  of  an  image  to  satisfy  its  yearnings.  The  trials 
which  followed  her  departute  from  Mrs.  Eussel's,  though 
they  rendered  such  thoughts  less  engrossing,  could  not  ban- 
ish them  entirely.  She  was  herself  perfectly  unconscious 
of  their  nature  or  their  power  ;  rather  rejoicing  that  circum- 
stances had  prevented  her  from  ever  experiencing  that  emo- 
tion, whose  power  and  intensity  she  had  so  instinctively 
dreaded  in  her  youth. 

We  are  no  believers  in  what  is  termed  love  at  first  sight, 
but  we  do  believe  that  some  faces  have  the  power  of  at- 
traction, and  are  the  magnet,  as  it  were,  to  the  needle  of 
the  mind,  so  holding  the  fancy  chained.  For  this  infatua- 
tion, intimate  association  is  as  often  the  cure  as  the  con- 
firmer.  Still,  even  when  the  latter  is  not  love,  but  simply 
a  species  of  animal  magnetism,  chaining  the  mind  to  one 
object,  love  itself  never  comes  till  the  yearning  is  swallowed 
up  in  the  truth,  the  worth,  the  afiection  of  the  being  with 
whom  the  invisible  chain  hath  bound  us,  making  two  07ie 
ere  either  was  aware. 

The  months  of  September  and  October  were  pleasant 
months  at  Amersley.  The  intimate  friends  of  Lord  and 
Lady  St.  Maur  were  constantly  staying  with  them,  occa- 
sioning a  series  of  domestic  enjoyments,  peculiarly  plea- 
surable to  Florence.  From  actual  gayety,  her  heart,  still 
filled  with  the  memories  of  Walter,  would  painfully  have 
shrank  ;  but  this  was  not  gayety,  it  was  enjoyment.  That 
her  young  charge  often  occasioned  her  disappointment, 
demanding  extreme  forbearance  and  control,  to  obtain 
dominion  over  a  proud,  sullen  spirit,  and  uncomplying 
temper,  were  difficulties  in  her  task  Avhich  Florence  not 
only  determined  to  overcome,  but  met  willingly,  satisfied 
that  in  patiently  seeking  to  subdue  the  faults  of  Constance, 
she  was  really  forwarding  the  wishes  of  her  friends,  ami 
proving   also    her  own   ftarnest   desire   to   evince   herself 


188  woman's   friendship. 

worthy  of  the  important  trust  she  held.  Mormngs  of 
even  iingratei'ul  employment  would  have  been  more  than 
recompensed  hy  the  enjoyment  of  the  afternoon  and  even- 
in  o-.  Neither  pomp  nor  fashion  found  entrance  witliin  the 
hospitable  halls  of  Amersley.  It  was  truly  an  English 
HojiE,  like  which,  seek  the  world  over,  and  there  is  no 
other.  Affection,  mtellect,  refinement,  inspired  and  guid- 
ed employment  and  recreation.  From  Lady  Helen  to  lit- 
tle Cecil,  (Lord  St.  Maur's  youngest  child,)  from  the  Earl 
himself  to  his  lowliest  retainer,  all  seemed  infused  with 
a  spirit  of  happiness,  as  innocent  as  it  was  reviving,  and 
overflowing  in  uncounted  channels  of  benevolence  for  !nany 
railes  around.  In  this  home  enjoyment  of  the  Earl  and 
Countess,  of  course,  none  but  congenial  spirits  found  ad- 
mission, and  by  all  these  was  Florence  universally  regarded 
with  that  cordial  and  heart-felt  appreciation  so  reviving  to 
one  whom  trial  and  care  had  so  long  claimed,  that  she 
often  felt  as  if  she  had  not  one  loveable  quality  remain- 
ing. Lady  Helen,  who  was  never  easily  pleased,  soon  learn- 
ed to  love  her  dearly,  and  no  longer  \vonder  at  the  friend- 
ship towards  her  which  her  daughter-in-law  had  so  un- 
changeably retained. 

And  what  was  the  secret  of  this  universal  kindness  ? 
The  utter  absence  of  pretension,  which  so  characterized 
her  conduct,  that  she  never  for  one  moment  forgot  her  real 
position,  or  presumed  in  the  smallest  degree  on  the  notice 
she  received.  Her  own  self-respect  had  always  taught  hei 
the  respect  due  to  others  ;  and  perhaps  it  was  this  part  ol 
her  character  which  had  so  strongly  attracted  the  regard 
and  a^}probation  of  the  Earl,  who,  in  his  heart  of  hearts, 
had  once,  perhaps,  feared  that  his  wife,  energetic  as  she  was 
would  scarcely  be  able  to  carry  out  her  plans,  and  that  the 
footing  on  which  she  resolvsd  on  placing  Florence  in  her 
establishment  would  engender  too  much  familiarity  between 
them.  He  did  not  know  the  character  of  Florence, — Lady 
St.  Maur  had  told  him,  and  she  did,  and  that  made  all  the 
difference. 

Emily  and  Alfred  Melford  ^vere  often  amongst  the 
visitors  at  Amersley.  The  exertions  of  Lady  St.  Maur 
had  all  failed  with  regard  to  the  former.  She  had  been 
too  long  the  victim  of  inertness  with  fancied  ill-health  to 


woman's  friendship.  189 

overcome  it ;  but  still  at  Amersley  she  was  conscious  of 
more  happiness,  or  rather  less  ennui  than  any  where  else. 
Alfred  had  found  out  that  he  was  not  quite  as  indifferent 
to  a  certain  Lady  Mary  as  he  fancied  himself,  and  therefore 
when  she  was  at  Amersley,  there  too  was  he. 

Frank  Howard's  political  duties  never  allowed  him  a 
very  long  sojourn  at  the  hall,  but  he  made  up  by  the 
number  for  the  shortness  of  his  visits.  Peculiarly  and 
painfully  situated  by  the  morose  character  and  anchorite 
habits  of  his  father,  he  had  endeavored  to  forget  the 
gloomy  sadness  of  his  domestic  roof  by  embarking  all  his 
energies  in  following  a  brilliant  public  career.  His  heart, 
however,  was  naturally  much  too  full  of  all  the  kindly 
home  affections  for  such  a  life  entirely  to  satisfy  him  ; 
and  he  turned  to  Lord  St.  Maur's  happy  circle  with  an 
earnest  longing  for  such  a  home  himself.  Feeling  deeply 
for  his  insolated  domestic  position,  and  greatly  admiring 
his  talents,  more  particularly  as  she  saw  that  her  husband 
was  his  model  of  manly  worth,  Frank  was  an  especial 
favorite  of  the  Countess,  who  often  spoke  of  him  to 
Florence,  revealing  many  little  traits  of  his  boyhood 
which  increased  the  interest  he  had  unconciously  in- 
spired. 

The  reported  riches  of  his  strange  father,  all  of  which 
he  would  inherit,  had  made  him  so  courted  and  flattered 
by  match-making  mothers,  that  his  manner  towards 
women  became  as  reserved  and  cold  as  to  be  almost  a 
proverb,  and  even  at  Amersley  this  peculiarity  did  not 
quite  leave  him  ;  but  to  Florence  no  one  could  be  kinder 
or  m.ore  respectful ;  nothing,  indeed,  to  cause  remark,  but 
seeming  to  make  her  feel  how  truly  he  respected  her  as 
Florence  Leslie,  how  fully  he  could  appreciate  her  domestic 
worth  and  unpretending  usefulness. 

Minie  "  Leslie's  susceptibility  of  enjoyment  was  actually 
infectious.  Constituted  superintendent  of  Lady  St, 
Maur's  village  schools — the  right  hand  of  the  venera.ble 
clergyman  amongst  his  poor — as  happy  the  sole  companion 
of  her  mother  as  in  the  halls  of  Amersley,  Minie's  life 
was  one  flood  of  sunshine.  Even  the  fond  recollection  of 
Walter  could  not  cloud  this  light ;  for  if  she  were  so 
happy  on  earth,  she  felt,  what  must  he  be  in  heaven  ? 


190  woman's  friendship 

Florence  had  often  longed  to  introduce  liei  c-i»Ler  to 
Howard,  but  by  a  curious  combination  of  circumstances, 
it  appeared  as  if  fate  had  determined  that  they  should  not 
meet.  It  seemed  as  if  the  happiness  of  both  sisters  needed 
Httle  of  increase,  but  yet  another  of  the  seeds  sown  in 
Borrow  was  now  to  burst  forth  in  joy. 


CHAPTER  XXXin. 

FRANK   HOWARD. — YEARNINGS   FOR   AFFECTION. THE    GIF  f 

RESTORED. 

"Why,  Florence,  what  correspondent  can  ha\e  the 
power  of  making  you  look  so  disappointed  ?"  asked  the 
Countess  one  evening,  as  they  retired  to  the  draAving-room 
after  dinner.  It  was  late  in  the  autumn,  and  only  the 
family  Avere  at  the  Hall.  "  Why  you  look  as  guilty  and 
confused  as  if  there  were  some  love  business  in  the  case 
I  am  curious." 

"No  such  grave  business,  I  assure  you,"  was  her  reply. 
"  I  was  foolish  enough  to  hope  that  a  jewel  I  parted  with, 
nearly  a  twelvemonth  ago,  might  be  recovered,  and  Mr. 
Danvers'  reply  that  he  had  long  ago  lost  all  trace  of  it 
caused  a  painful  feelmg  of  disappointment." 

"And  how  do  I  know  but  that  it  is  not  an  affaire  de 
c(Lur,  after  all?  Such  a  precious  jewel  can  surely  only  be 
a  love  token." 

"  No,  dear  Lady  St.  Maur,  it  was  no  token  of  love,  but 
of  friendship.  Forgive  me,  if  I  seemed  to  hold  your  gift 
in  little  value  ;  only  to  fulfil  what  I  felt  were  the  wishes  of 
the  dying  could  it  thus  have  gone," 

"  And  do  not  regret  it,  Florence  ;  I  know  you  too  well 
to  thinlc  you  parted  with  it  lightly.  Besides,  there  is  a 
spell  in  those  emeralds,"  she  added,  laughmgly  ;  "  know 
you  not  they  are  the  emblems  of  constanc}'',  and  not 
only  lose  all  their  brilliancy  if  touched  by  a  faithless  hand, 
but  are  dim  and  dull  till  they  return  to  the  hand  that  gave 
or  to  the  true  heart  that  resigns  them  ?  Now,  if  Danvers 
«old  them  to  any  but  the  right  person,  they  wil.  be  useless, 
lacking  all  light  and  lustre  ;  but  if " 


woman's  friendship.  191 

She  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  Lord  St.  Mam 
and  Frank  Howard,  talking  so  earnestly  that  the  latter  did 
not  even  salute  the  Countess  till  she  spoke 

"  Frank  I  here  again  so  soon,  when  you  declared 
Araersley  should  not  see  you  for  two  months  ;  you  were 
going  to  study  so  deeply.  I  wish  you  joy  of  your  perse- 
verance ;  it  is  just  one  week  since  we  bade  you  farewell. 
"What  are  you  so  earnest  about?  Politics  again,  those 
hateful  politics,  only  tolerated  for  my  husband's  sake, 
though  the  wise  world  does  choose  to  dub  me  his  promptei 
and  adviser. 

"  But  this  is  not  politics.  Lady  St.  Maur  ;  it  is  poetry, 
the  finest,  purest,  truest,  which  this  prose-loving  world 
has  seen  for  many  a  long  day.  It  has  created  a  greatei 
sensation  than  has  been  felt  this  age  ;  the  more  perhaps 
that  it  is  a  posthumous  work.  The  glorious  genius  who 
has  poured  out  his  whole  soul  on  these  pages  may  give  us 
no  more.  I  am  here  lairly  from  curiosity,  for  Morton  re- 
fused to  answer  any  inquiries,  referring  me  for  all  informa- 
tion to  the  Earl,  or  Miss  Leslie,  to  whom  I  am  the  bearer 
of  a  large  parcel  from  him.  But  how  pale  you  look,  Miss 
Leslie  !  you  are  ill." 

Florence  had  indeed  sunk  back  on  her  chair,  pale  as 
death  ;  but  she  gazed  on  the  book  which  Howard  almost 
instinctively  gave  her  ;  her  eyes  glanced  on  words  which 
seemed  breathed  in  her  ear  once  more  by  the  very  voice  of 
Walter.  The  book  fell  from  her  powerless  hold,  and  drop, 
ping  her  face  on  her  hands,  she  burst  into  tears. 

A  few  words  explained  the  apparent  rflystery  to  Frank, 
whose  sympathy,  instantly  excited  at  first,  was  enraged  at 
his  own  precipitancy,  and  then  launched  into  such  an  elo- 
quent narration  of  the  work's  extraordinary  success,  of  tho 
interest  felt  for  the  young  and  nameless  poet,  from  tho 
touching  memoir  annexed  to  it  by  the  self-constituted[ 
editor,  Morton  ;  of  the  speedy  demand  which  he  was  sure 
there  would  be  for  a  second  edition,  when  he  hoped  the 
poet's  name  would  not  be  withheld  ;  that  those  who  had 
neglected  him  in  life,  only  because  success  had  not  crowned 
his  genius,  might  know  what  a  being  they  had  scorned — 
that  Florence  was  enabled  to  rally  from  her  natural  emo- 
tion, and  listen,  with  melancholy  pleasure,  to  Howard's 


192  woman's   friendship 

woids.  Morton's  letter  to  herself,  and  the  several  reviews 
he  had  forwarded,  confirmed  all  the  young  man  said,  even 
to  his  desire  and  intention,  with  Mrs.  Leslie's  permission, 
of  publisliing  the  next  edition  with  the  author's  name. 
The  beauty  and  taste  in  which  the  work  had  been  got  up 
could  not  fail  to  strike  Florence,  and  she  almost  feared 
that  Morton's  generous  appreciation  had  outstripped  his 
judgment.  She  did  not  know,  nor  did  she  ever  know, 
that  it  was  to  the  Earl's  admiration  of  the  poems,  when 
first  told  their  tale  by  Morton,  that  the  work  owed  its 
present  attractions  of  type  and  illustrations,  that  full 
justice  to  the  beautiful  designs  of  the  young  artist  might 
be  done.  Eagerly,  when  Florence  retired,  did  Frank 
listen  to  Lady  St.  Maur's  narrative  of  Walter's  sufferings, 
and  his  family's  devotion.  Reverence  for  genius  was  a 
strong  feature  in  Howard's  character  ;  and  that  Florence 
had  tended  the  sufferings,  soothed  the  sorrows,  and  sym- 
pathized with  every  spiritual  dream,  endowed  her,  in  his 
eyes,  with  a  portion  of  the  sacredness  encircling  the  poet's 
self. 

We  will  leave  to  the  imagination  of  our  readers  the 
mother's  feelings,  as  from  the  quivering  lips  of  Florence 
on  the  following  day  she  heard  that  a  world  had  acknow 
ledged  the  mighty  genius  of  her  angel  boy  ;  a  world  was 
paying  homage  to  his  name  in  death — his  name  who  in 
life  had  scarcely  found  a  friend. 

It  was  a  lovely  autumn  morning  that  Florence  returned 
to  the  Hall  from  her  mother's  cottage,  welcoming  the 
sunshine  as  enaMing  her  to  join  her  pupils  by  their 
usual  breakfast  hour.  The  trees  were  almost  all  bare  of 
leaves,  but  to  her  eye  there  was  a  charm  in  their  delicate 
tracery  against  the  clear  blue  sky,  in  the  rich  dark  green 
of  the  holly,  and  here  and  there  in  the  red  and  yellow 
leaves  still  lingering  on  the  spray.  A  slight  hoar  frost 
had  woven  its  net-work  on  some  of  the  trees,  and  lay  in 
beautiful  tracery  on  the  fresh  green  grass,  and  a  clear 
stream,  swollen  by  some  heavy  rains,  laughed  and  gurgled 
in  the  sunshine,  bearing  many  a  jagged  branch  and  yellow 
leaf  along  with  it.  The  air  was  fresh  and  exhilarating, 
and  Florence  walked  on  briskly,  thinking  on ;  she  herself 
would  have  said  so  many  things,  that  we  may  not  disbe- 


woman's    FRIENDSHir.  193 

lieve  her,  though  if  there  be  a  mesmeric  power,  as  some 
say,  to  bring  those  on  whom  we  are  pondering  palpably 
before  us,  a  voice  at  her  side  would  certainly  betray  who 
it  was  that  occupied  at  least  a  portion  of  her  thoughts. 

"You  are  an  early  riser.  Miss  Leslie.  Why,  most 
people  are  still  in  their  chambers,  if  not  on  their  couches. 
The  sun  has  only  just  peeped  out  himself." 

"  Do  you  .lot  know  the  old  adage,  Mr.  Howard,  *  An 
hour  lost  in  the  morning  is  never  found  all  day.'  My 
pupil  and  I  must  not  abuse  Lady  St.  Maur's  indulgence 
yesterday  by  wasting  our  best  hours  to-day.  Now  you 
have  no  such  weighty  incentive,  yet  I  find  you  enjoymg 
this  beautiful  morning  too." 

"  I  do  enjoy  it.  The  mornings  of  the  fall  of  the  Tear 
are  sometimes  so  lovely  as  to  make  amends  for  the  gloomy 
dusk.  November  is  no  month  for  suicides  in  the  country, 
whatever  it  may  be  in  London.  Do  you  share  your  brother's 
feehng  on  the  subject  of  'autumn?'"  And  he  repeated, 
with  real  pathos  and  rich  intonation,  one  of  Walter's  most 
beautiful  poems.  A  conversation  of  much  interest  na- 
turally followed,  and  Florence  was  surprised,  and  almost 
alarmed  at  the  passionate  earnestness  with  which,  in  al- 
lusion to  the  love  she  and  Walter  had  borne  each  other, 
he  exclaimed,  "  Yes  I  in  spite  of  all  his  sufferings,  priva- 
tions, cares,  Walter  Leslie  was  a  being  to  be  envied.  Oh ' 
Miss  Leslie,  you  cannot  Imow  how  I  yearn  for  the  ties  of 
blood,  how  my  heart  envies  all  who  bend  to  feel  a  mother's 
kiss  or  clasp  a  sister's  hand.  How  strange  it  seems  to 
me,  that  any  one  who  possesses  such  sweet  ties  should 
heed  them  not,  and  never  think  them  blessings.  I  never 
knew  a  mother's  love ;  strangers  nursed  me,  liirehngs  only 
loved  me ;  in  childhood  I  scarcely  knew  that  I  had  a 
father — in  boyhood  he  was  not  one  to  win  my  love,  and 
even  had  he  been,  could  not  have  filled  my  soul's  deep 
yearnings  for  the  gentler,  dearer  fondness  of  a  mother,  or 
a  sister,  to  love,  protect,  be  proud  of,  and  to  give  me  back 
all  the  love  I  felt.  Your  brother  knew  such  love.  In  the 
midst  of  woe,  and  bodily  and  mental  ill,  it  shone  around 
him  like  an  angel's  smile  ;  and,  oh  I  I  would  bear  his 
burden,  heavy  as  it  was,  to  be  so  cherished,  so  beloved." 

Florence  had  never  heard  Frank  revert  to  himself  before,, 
17 


194  woman's  friendship. 

even  in  his  most  unguarded  moments ;  but  she  did  re- 
collect once,  Avhcn  called  upon  by  the  children  to  settle 
some  trifling  dispute,  when  caressmg  the  little  pouting 
Cecil  into  good  humor,  and  bidding  him  kiss  his  sister, 
his  saying,  with  much  deeper  emotion  than  the  occasion 
warranted — "Kiss  her,  love  her,  Cecil;  you  do  not  know 
yet  what  a  sister  will  be  to  you ;  perhaps  you  will  never 
know,  for  you  may  never  feel  the  void  which  life  is  without 
one."  And  this,  though  it  passes  little  heeded  at  the 
time,  confii'med  his  present  passionate  words.  To  reply 
was  rather  difficult ;  but  Howard,  as  if  half-ashamed  of  his 
own  emotion,  talked  on  other  things,  and  so  entertainingly, 
that  the  walk  to  the  Hall  seemed  marvellously  shorter 
than  usual. 

"  Miss  Leslie,  Miss  Leslie  I"  exclaimed  a  sweet  childish 
voice,  as  Florence  was  dressing  for  dinner  that  day,  and 
the  little  Ida  bounded  through  the  readily  opened  door — 
"  Mamma  says  I  am  to  give  you  this,  and  to  tell  you  that  if 
you  ever  part  with  it  now,  these  beautiful  stones  ^nust  grow 
dim  and  dull,  and  can  never  return  to  you  again."  And 
to  Florence's  extreme  surprise  she  received  from  the  eager 
child  her  own  identical  cross  and  chain. 

'*  I  know  not  if  the  legend  be  a  true  one  after  all,"  said 
the  Countess,  as  Florence,  on  joining  her,  entreated  her 
only  to  tell  her  if  that  too  had  been  one  of  the  many 
witnesses  against  her.  "  It  told  me  indeed  that  you  loved 
me  still,  but  had  ceased  to  trust  me  ;  yet  how  can  the 
cne  truth  be  perfect  without  the  other." 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

THE   PORTRAIT   AND   ITS   COUNTERPART. 

Frank  Howard's  deep  interest  in  Walter  naturally 
led  him  to  Mrs.  Leslie's  cottage,  and  so  much  pleasure 
did  he  find  in  his  first  visit  that  he  repeated  it  whenever 
he  came  to  the  Hall.  By  one  of  those  curious  comci- 
denoes  which  we  sometimes  find,  he  never  once  met 
Mirie,  even  at  her  mother's  cottage,  though  not  a  littk 


woman's    FB.1ENDSHIP.  195 

anxious  to  do  so  .  not  only  from  the  admiration  with 
which  he  always  lingered  on  her  picture,  both  in  Walter's 
own  painting  and  m  the  frontispiece  to  liis  book,  but  from 
discovering  that  hers  was  the  exquisite  voice  which  had  so 
charmed  him  at  Morton's.  The  curious  chances  which 
always  seemed  to  prevent  the  best  laid  plans  for  their  in- 
troduction to  each  other,  became  at  length  quite  a  jest 
between  the  persons  concerned ;  Minie  declaring  that  if  she 
ever  should  meet  Mr.  Howard,  she  should  certainly  think 
something  extraordinary  was  impending,  and  Florence 
feeling  almost  vexed  that  the  time  had  come  for  their 
leaving  Amersley  without  this  desu-ed  introduction  having 
taken  place. 

The  respectful  deference  which  Frank  ever  marJfested 
towards  Mrs.  Leslie,  his  unfeigned  admiration  of  Walter's 
genius,  rendered  still  dearer  by  the  strong  feeling  with 
which  he  alluded  to  his  character  and  trials,  naturally  won 
Mrs.  Leslie's  heart,  and  she  looked  forward  to  the  young 
man's  visits  as  periods  of  enjoyment.  But  the  train  of 
thought  which  they  left  behind  them  was  as  indefinable 
as  it  was  engrossing.  Something  in  his  countenance 
seemed  to  rest  upon  her  memory  as  having  been  seen 
before,  yet  indistinctly  as  the  vision  of  a  dream.  Just 
before  Lord  St.  Maur  and  his  family's  departure  for 
London,  Howard  had  come  as  usual,  staying  perhaps 
the  longer  as  he  thought  it  would  be  several  months 
before  he  should  be  in  that  part  of  England  agam,  when 
he  hoped,  he  said  with  a  smile,  that  the  spell  upon  his 
meeting  Minie  would  be  broken,  and  they  would  be  per- 
sonally as  intimate  as  he  felt  they  were  in  all  else  already. 
He  conversed  for  some  time  with  even  more  than  wonted 
animation,  and  when  he  left  her,  Mrs.  Leslie  remained 
buried  in  thought,  which  thronged  upon  her  more  myste- 
riously, yet  more  incongruous  than  usual.  Suddenly  a 
flash  seemed  to  illumine  their  darkness,  but  with  a  light 
too  painful  to  be  borne. 

"  It  cannot  be,"  she  involuntarily  exclaimed  aloud, 
^^caiivM  be,  or  if  there  be  indeed  similarity,  it  must 
be  only  accidental.  The  expression  is  so  different,  as 
unlike  as  an  angel  to  a  fiend,  and  yet  the  outline  of  the 
face,  the  features  themselves,  these  are  alike,  it  is  vain  to 


196  woman's   friendship. 

deny  it ;  but  the  name,  the  title,  they  were  not  his,  even 
in  perspective.  No,  no,  the  thought  is  folly ;  there 
can  be  no  danger  to  the  child — the  very  hkeness  k 
unlike." 

But  the  thought  would  return,  perhaps  more  persevcr- 
ingly  from  the  depression  occasioned  by  the  parting  from 
Florence,  for  some  months'  residence  in  London. 

The  political  duties  of  the  Earl  took  him  up  to  town 
rather  before  what  is  called  the  season  ;  but  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life  the  great  city  appeared  almost  as  agreeable 
a  residence  to  Florence  as  the  country.  The  Countess 
seemed  determined  he  should  see  it  in  other  coloring 
than  that  of  care  and  sorrow  ;  and  its  magazines  of  ajt 
and  science,  its  galleries,  were  painting  and  sculpture 
marked  the  progress  of  British  genius — its  varied  avenues 
to  literature  and  music — its  interesting  antiquities,  and 
associations  with  men  of  genius  of  the  past,  as  well 
as  of  the  present,  all  were  revealed  to  the  eyes  and  mind 
of  Florence,  and  found  her  willing  and  rejoicing  to  ac- 
knowledge that  there  was  much  indeed  in  the  capital  of 
her  country  to  call  for  admiration  and  reverence  from  the 
hearts  of  her  sons.  She  saw,  too,  that  influence  and 
benevolence  were  not  to  be  confined  to  life  in  the  country, 
that  to  do  good  was  not,  as  Emily  Melford  had  once 
solemnly  assured  her,  incompatible  -with  a  London  life.  In 
her  youth  the  Lady  Ida  Villiers  had  been  taught  by  a  ju- 
dicious father  those  fearful  abuses  which  are  now  made 
the  subject  of  so  many  able  pens,  but  which,  twenty  years 
ago,  were  scarcely  known  beyond  the  range  of  the  sufferers 
themselves.  An  enhghtened  politician,  because  a  true 
patriot  himself,  the  late  Lord  Edgemere,  had  made  it  his 
business  to  become  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  suffer- 
ings of  the  worki7ig-2')oor ,  had  associated  his  daughter  with 
his  'practical  benevolence,  which  was  extending  widely 
even  at  the  very  time  that  his  theory  was  considered  by  his 
compeers  as  but  the  delusions  of  a  fever  dream,  Edmund 
St.  Maur  had  imbibed  these  visionary  projects,  and  now 
he  and  his  Countess  worked  hand-in-hand  for  the  ameliora- 
tion of  those  over-tasked  and  suffering  classes,  of  whoso 
very  existence  Emily  Melford,  and  very  many  besides  her- 
self,   were   wholly   ignorant.     At  the  period  of  our  tale. 


WOMAN'S    FRIENDSHIP.  197 

geven  years  ago,  such  benevolence  was  confined  to  some 
few  enlightened  and  noble-minded  individuals.  How  re- 
joicingly must  the  philanthropist  regard  the  march  of  time, 
as  associated  with  the  amehoration  of  his  species,  when 
lie  reflects  on  the  spirit  Vv'orking  now,  that  the  social  evils, 
invisible  and  impalpable  before,  are  now  rising  before 
men's  eyes  and  minds,  rendered  strong  and  mighty,  far- 
spreading  in  their  appeal  for  redress  and  removal,  alike  by 
the  pen  of  genius  and  the  exertions  of  the  good.  In  these 
views,  and  in  their  practice,  as  in  every  thing  else,  the 
Countess  St.  Maur  associated  Florence  as  a  friend  capable 
not  only  of  assisting,  but  of  understanding  and  sympathizing 
in  them.  Innumerable  little  thmgs  proved  to  her  grateful 
heart  that  the  Countess  indeed  spoke  as  she  felt,  when  she 
fissured  her  that  she  could  leave  home  with  a  heart  as 
light  again  as  the  last  season,  for  she  knew  her  place  was 
so  faithfully  supplied,  both  to  her  mother  and  her  children ; 
often  concluding  with  a  very  mischievous  smile — "  If  you 
should  ever  marry,  Florence,  what  shall  I  do?  If  the 
gentleman  be  not  exactly  what  I  approve,  I  shall  refuse 
my  consent,  depend  upon  it."  And  Florence  would  declare 
she  need  be  under  no  fear,  for  she  was  much  too  happy  as 
she  was  ever  to  think  of  marrying.  Nor  did  she  think  of 
it ;  the  idea  of  love,  she  believed,  had  never  entered  her 
mhid  ;  not  dreaming  that  the  peculiar  pleasure  she  felt  in 
the  society  of  one  individual  could  proceed  from  such  a 
source.  Love  !  she  smiled  at  the  bear  idea.  How  could 
she,  a  portionless,  unattractive  girl,  ever  dream  of  being 
loved  !  and  unless  love  were  off*ered,  how  could  she  re- 
turn it  ?  And  so  she  mingled  amongst  the  select  circle 
of  Lady  St,  Maur's  intimate  friends,  who  always  proffered 
her  the  gratification  of  attention  and  appreciation,  wliich 
the  CouTiCess  insisted  on  her  accepting;  mingled  with 
them,  as  she  believed,  love-proof,  pleasing  and  wilhng  to 
be  pleased ;  but,  as  she  imagined,  neither  attractmg  noi 
feehng  any  stronger  emotion. 

Meanwhile  a  second  edition  had  been  called  for  of 
Walter's  poems,  and  his  name  being  now  universally  known 
Florence  had  often  the  melancholy  gratification  of  re- 
seivuig  kindness  and  attention  for  his  sake,  from  those 
whose  mind  and  heart  could  appreciate  the  genius  gone 

17* 


198  woman's     FllIKNDSHiP. 

More  lliuu  once  slie  found  herself  unconsciously  searching 
for  tli3  ori.ainal  of  that  lovely  portrait,  which  revealed  the 
ohject  of  his  secret,  but  all-engrossing  love.  His  fragments 
of  thought  had  disclosed  that  he  loved  one  so  far  above 
him  that  they  could  never  be  united,  and  that  he  had  loved 
unknown,  unsuspected  by  its  object.  The  portrait  had 
riveted  the  face  upon  her  memory,  but  she  searched  for  its 
living  counterpart  in  vain. 

Can  it  be  that  the  theory  of  the  ancients  has  some  faint 
shadowing  of  truth — that  souls  are  sent  on  the  earth  in 
pairs,  and  wander  lonely  and  sorrowing  en  their  diverse 
paths,  till  their  kindred  essence  again  is  found,  and  their 
union  on  earth  is  the  faint  shadow  of  the  bliss  awaiting 
them  in  heaven?  That  therefore  is  it  there  are  sorrow 
and  anguish  in  unrequited,  aye,  and  often  in  requited 
love,  for  seldom  is  it  the  souls  paired  in  heaven  are 
joined  on  earth.  Love  may  be  felt,  but  oceans  and 
deserts,  or  the  yet  wider  barriers  of  poverty  and  Avealth, 
may  stretch  between  the  two  souls  yearning  for  each  other, 
and  thus  they  clothe  another  with  the  unanswered  light- 
gleaming  for  their  own  ;  and  therefore  it  is  that  some 
unions  seeming  of  love,  fade  into  indifference  and  neglect, 
but  when  wedded  life  is  such  joy  that  the  love  felt  before 
marriage  is  as  nothing,  compared  to  the  deep  affection, 
afterwards,  brightening  more  and  more  into  the  perfect 
day,  through  lingering  years  and  their  varying  ordeals 
each  soul  has  found  its  kindred  soul,  and  they  are  one 
again  forever.  Can  this  be  ?  Who  on  earth  may 
answer  ? 

"  Miss  Leslie,"  said  Sir  Charles  Brashleigh,  one  day, 
as  he  was  partaking  the  Earl's  family  dinner,  I  have 
made  a  promise  in  your  name  which  I  depend  on  your 
goodness  to  fulfil.  It  is  to  accompany  me  on  a  visit  to 
a  young  patient,  who,  I  greatly  fear,  is  fast  sinking 
from  decUne,  the  primary  cause  of  which  is  hidden  in 
mystery.  Your  brother's  poems  are  never  out  of  her 
hands,  often  occasioning  such  emotion,  that  I  have  threat- 
ened to  refuse  her  the  luxury  of  reading  them ;  but  it  13 
only  a  threat,  and  she  Imows  it,  for  no  earthly  emotion  can 
harm  her  now,  poor  girl !  I  camiot  help  believmg  there 
has   been  some  ill-fated   love  at  work,  undermining   her 


woman's  friendship.  199 

health  ;  but  her  family  declare  it  to  be  utterly  impossible. 
She  was  scarcely  introduced  into  society  before  she  became 
ill.  I  asked  her  one  day  if  she  felt  any  wish  to  know  the 
family  of  the  poet,  whose  genius  she  admired  so  much  ? 
Her  cheek  quite  flushed  with  the  eagerness  of  her  assent ; 
and  turning  to  the  frontispiece,  I  told  her  all  I  knew  about 
it,  and  how  fondly  the  poet  had  been  loved  by  his  family, 
asking  her  which  of  his  sisters  she  most  wished  to  see. 
Her  face  had  been  turned  from  me,  and  when  she  looked 
up  again,  I  was  terrified  at  its  ghastly  whiteness,  and  the 
strange  quivering  of  her  lips  before  she  could  speak,  she 
pointed  on  the  figure  I  had  said  was  yours,  and  faintly 
articulated.  '  The  one  you  say  is  Florence — she  was  older, 
could  love  him  best,  and  he  so  loved  her.'  And  so  I  pro- 
mised— was  I  right  ?" 

"  Oh  yes.  Sir  Charles,  I  will  go  with  you  with  pleasure  ; 
if  she  can  so  love  my  Walter  in  his  poems,  I  need  no  more 
to  love  and  feel  for  her." 

Sir  Charles  thanked  her  with  a  kindly  nod,  and  the 
Countess  inquired  who  his  patient  was  ? 

"  The  youngest  daughter  of  Sir  William  Lennox,  the 
head,  although  the  passive  one,  of  some  large  mercantile 
house  connected  with  the  India-house,  incalulably  rich, 
and  a  man  much  sought  after  ;  his  wife  was  some  lady  of 
rank,  and  he  looks  to  his  daughters  making,  what  is  called, 
capital  matches.  It  will  be  a  sad  visit.  Miss  Leslie  ;  but  I 
know  your  kind  heart  will  not  regret  it,  if  I  can  give  her 
any  satisfaction." 

Florence  assured  him  she  should  not,  and  the  Earl 
added — 

"  By  the  way,  Florence,  was  it  not  in  some  such  office 
that  your  poor  brother  labored  so  incessantly  ?  Have  I  not 
heard  you  say  it  had  to  do  with  the  India  trade  ?" 

"Yes;  but  I  never  heard  him  mention  Sir  William 
Lennox ;  I  rather  think  Meynard  was  the  name  of  his 
principal  employer." 

"  That  may  be,  and  yet  it  may  be  the  same  concern,  as 
Sir  William  is  seldom  or  never  known  or  seen  by  his  junior 
clerks." 

Interested  in  Sir  Charles's  narrative,  Florence  did  not 
cotice  this  remark .     The  admiration  excited  by  her  brother's 


200  woman's  friendship. 

poems  was  so  general,  that  there  was  nothing  remarkable 
in  a  young  and  sufTering  girl  lingering  on  their  pages  till 
she  felt  her  oAvn  soul  refleeted  in  them  ;  and  her  belief 
that  "Walter's  love  was  as  unreturned  as  it  was  unknown, 
prevented  any  association  of  the  portrait  and  Sir  Charles's 
tale. 

The  following  day  Sir  Charles  called  for  her.  She  was 
received  kindly  by  the  family,  and  after  a  brief  delay, 
cc^iducted  to  the  chamber  of  the  young  invaUd.  Could  it 
be  ?  Florence  started  in  undisguised  astonishm.ent ;  that 
face — that  lovely  face,  with  its  faint,  beautiful  rose,  its 
waving  curls  of  paly  gold,  through  which  the  brow  gleamed 
forth  like  ivory,  as  pure  and  stainless,  she  knew  it  at  a 
glance.  Strange — mysterious  as  it  seemed,  here  lay  the 
lovely  idol  of  the  poet's  dreams  ;  and  those  impassioned 
dreams  were  in  her  hand,  were  treasured  next  her  heart. 
The  deep  violet  orbs,  almost  black,  from  their  long  dark 
fi-inges,  fixed  their  full  earnest  gaze  on  Florence,  as  she 
entered,  and  the  hectic  deepened  on  her  cheek,  but  she 
eagerly  extended  her  hand,  and  faintly  murmured — 

"  This  was  kind,  kind  indeed,  to  comxC  to  me  so  promptly  ; 
Sir  Charles ;  will  you  add  to  your  kindness,  and  permit 
me  to  be  alone  with  Miss  Leslie  ?  You  know  I  camiot 
bear  many  around  me,  and  they  spoil  me  by  indulging  me 
in  every  thing." 

"  And  so  I  suppose  I  must  in  this,  Miss  Lucy.  Well, 
well,  be  it  so.     I  will  call  for  Miss  Leslie  in  an  hour." 

And  so  saying  he  departed.  Florence  had  spoken  some 
kindly  words  ;  but  for  several  minutes  after  Sir  Charles 
had  disappeared,  the  poor  invalid  kept  her  hand  on 
Florence's  arai,  looking  sadly  and  inquiringly  in  her  face  ; 
at  length  she  murmured, 

"  You  are  not  like  him,  I  hoped  you  would  be.  Yet  he 
loved  you,  and  Sir  Charles  has  told  me  how  you  loved 
him.  Oh,  Miss  Leshe  !  bear  with  me  ;  do  not  scorn  me 
as  a  poor,  weak,  degraded  girl.  You  are  his  sister,  and 
he  is  gone ;  there  can  be  no  shame,  no  sin  ;  I  could  not 
whisper  it  to  others,  they  could  not  understand  me ;  per* 
haps  they  would  upbraid  me,  or  think  ill  of  him ;  and, 
oh  I  death  were  better  than  that.  You  think  I  am  raving, 
dehrious ;    oh,    no  I   no  I   I  am  not.     They  call  it  decline, 


WOMAN    S   FRIENDSHIP.  201 

mere  bodily  disease,  but  it  is  not ;  my  heart  is  broken,  and 
all — all  for  love  of  liim  I" 

Whispered  as  the  words  were,  their  agonized  tone  thrill- 
ed to  the  heart  of  Florence,  who  had  thrown  herself  on  her 
knees  beside  the  couch,  and  was  pressing  tearful  kisses  on 
the  damp  brow,  which  had  sought  its  resting  place  on  her 
bosom,  as  if  the  words  had  burst  forth  involuntarily,  and 
left  her  exhausted  from  their  violence. 

*'  You  weep,"  she  said,  at  length,  as  she  felt  the  hot 
tears  of  Florence  fall  fast  upon  her  cheek ;  "  bless,  bless 
you  fo/  those  tears  ;  I  thought  my  heart  would  wear  its 
iron  chain  of  secrecy  to  the  grave ;  but  when  Sir  Charles 
spoke  of  you,  and  all  that  you  had  borne  and  felt  for  love 
of  him,  my  whole  soul  yearned  to  pour  forth  its  tale  to 
you.  Did  he  never  tell  you  there  was  a  time  when,  from 
the  high  character  his  employers  gave  him,  my  father  had 
him,  day  after  day,  in  our  house  in  London  to  transact 
some  private  business  ?  and  daily  I  saw  him,  for  I  was 
privileged,  and  wherever  my  father  was,  his  petted  Lucy 
was  at  his  side,  and  I  looked  on  his  face,  I  listened  to  his 
thrilling  voice,  and  felt  and  knew  his  hidden  genius  ;  he 
haunted  me  night  and  day,  but  I  knew  not,  guessed  not 
how  powerfully,  till  months  passed,  and  I  saw  him  not 
again,  and  the  longing  grew  stronger  and  stronger,  til/  my 
soul  was  sick,  and  my  strength  failed  ;  and  yet  I  dared 
not  speak  it,  for  neither  look  nor  word  betrayed  that  he 
had  ever  thought  of  me  ;  and  then  they  told  me  he  was 
ill,  ill  almost  unto  death,  and  never  came  to  his  office 
again.  And  whom  could  I  ask  of  him  ?  And  months 
wared,  and  no  one  guessed  why  both  my  health  and 
spirits  sunk  till  they  laid  me  here.  Yet  still  it  seemed  I 
hoped,  and  then  they  placed  this  volume  in  my  hand,  and 
I  traced  his  form !  Aye,  indistinct  as  to  others  that 
sketch  may  be,  to  me  it  was  clear,  vivid,  expressive  of  liie  ; 
and  I  knew  that  the  poems  were  his  work.  But  that 
preface — did  it  tell  liis  fate  ?  I  dared  not  think  it ;  yet  it 
froze  my  very  life  blood.  And  there  was  no  rest,  no 
sleep,  till  my  father  prevailed  on  Morton  to  tell  the  poet's 
name,  and  it  was  his.  Oh,  God  !  the  death-stroke  of  that 
hour !" 

She   broke   off  abruptly,  and   Florence    felt  'her  i  'ght 


202  WOMAN'S    FRIENDSHIP. 

frame  quiver,  as  if  convulsed  with  inward  agony  ,  foi 
Beveral  minutes  she  found  not  words  to  answer ;  at 
length — 

"  Would  it  be  joy  to  think  that  love  returned?"  she 
•said,  with  soothing  tenderness ;  "  alas,  sweet  one  I  he 
loved  thee  too  well." 

Lucy  sprang  from  her  recumhent  posture,  gazing  on 
that  gentle,  pitying  face,  as  if  to  penetrate  its  truth,  and 
almost  inarticulately  exclaimed — 

"  Could  I  think  so  !  dared  I  think  so  I  oh,  what  unutter- 
able joy  I  But  say  it,  say  it  again  ;  it  is  not  only  to  soothe, 
to  console,  say  that  he  loved  me  I" 

And  briefly  and  tenderly  Florence  told  all  she  knew 
and  how  she  had  traced  the  original  of  his  treasured  por- 
trait, the  moment  she  beheld  her.  The  poor  girl  heard 
and  a  burst  of  passionate  tears  suce>3eded,  and  then  a 
calm  so  deep,  so  still,  it  was  as  if  the  soul  were  already 
separating  from  the  body. 

"  Joy,  joy  for  me,"  were  her  parting  words  to  Florence, 
and  though  the  voice  was  one  of  utter  exhaustion,  her 
eyes  seemed  to  dance  in  the  light  of  rapture  ;  "joy,  such 
joy,  there  are  no  cold  barriers  to  love  in  heaven.  Walter 
will  be  mine  there,  all  mme — oh,  joy  I" 

And  from  that  hour,  though  she  sank  rapidly,  the 
depression  of  spirits,  the  irritability  of  disease  entirely 
subsided.  There  was  ever  a  bright  smile  on  her  fading 
lip,  a  glittering  joyousness  in  her  deep  blue  eye  ;  and  so 
after  a  few,  a  very  few  weeks,  she  passed  away  from  earth, 
and  none  knew  the  wherefore  of  that  early  death,  none 
knew  the  secret  of  her  love,  for  Florence  felt  it  a  theme 
too  hallowed  for  mortal  ear.  Death  had  consecrated  its 
memory  in  her  own  heart,  but  its  knowledge  seemed  to 
remove  every  wish  that  Walter  could  return  to  earth.  If 
there  be  such  love  in  this  cold,  perishable  world,  where 
blis.«  has  no  foundation  but  the  receding  sand,  and  love 
is  born  but  to  die,  oh,  what  must  love  be  in  heaven  !  Is 
there  one  longing  within  us  for  the  good,  the  pure,  the 
infinite,  that  is  implanted,  not  to  be  fulfilled  ?  Has  He 
made  all  things  for  good,  yet  left  to  dust  and  ashes  the 
purest,  noblest  feeUngs  in  the  heart  of  man  ?  No,  no. 
Every    silent   whisper    in    the    heart  breathes  of  inmior^ 


woman's  friendship.  20M 

talily,  and  dearer,  more  durable  than  all  ether  is  the  voice 

of  LOVE. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

PRIDE  OF  BIRTH. — THE  SUMMONS. — DEATH  OF  MRS.  LESLIE. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Frank?  you  look  perfectly  egare.^* 
inquired  Lady  St.  Maur,  as  that  gentleman  joined  theo  one 
morning  in  the  library.  Florence  chanced  that  day  to  be 
one  of  the  reading  party.  "Any  shock  between  your  idols 
— State  and  Senate  ?  If  so,  the  more  play  for  your  powers 
of  eloquent  oratory." 

"  No,  no.  Lady  St.  Maur  ;  no  public  mischance,  or  your 
husband  would  have  been  the  first  to  tell  you.  I  wonder 
you  have  not  .heard  of  the  domestic  tragedy  which  has  so 
startled  me." 

"  Tragedy  I"  repeated  the  Earl ;  "  my  good  fellow,  what 
do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Something  very  dreadful,  by  his  looks.  Come,  Frank, 
have  pity  on  our  curiosity ;  what  is  it — suicide  for  love,  or  a 
duel — an  elopement,  or  something  more  startling  still  ?" 

"  Nay,  Lady  St.  Maur,  it  has  fairly  shocked  me  out  of  all 
jesting.  Have  you  heard  nothing  of  the  expose  in  the  Bel- 
mont family?" 

"  Not  I ;  I  Ir.ave  not  seen  Mary  or  Emily  for  the  last 
Aveek,  and  I  only  hear  any  thing  of  gossip  from  them. 
What  of  Lady  Belmont  ?  I  always  imagined  her  one  of 
the  happiest  persons  in  this  great  aristocratic  world,  and 
just  now  particularly  ;  one  of  her  daughters  is  engaged  to 
such  an  excellent  young  man  I" 

"Do  speak  out,  Frank,"  urged  the  Earl.  "What  can 
you  have  to  say  about  her,  which  seems  so  loth  to  leave 
your  lips  ?     Is  she  less  happy  than  Ida  thinks  ?" 

"  Happy  !  good  heavens,  my  lord !  how  she  can  ever 
have  seemed  happy,  I  know  not :  she  is  not  Lord  Belmont's 
wife  I" 

"  Not  his  wife  !  then  who  in  the  world  is  she  ?"  ex- 
claimed the  Countess,  quite  unconscious  of  the  real  mean- 
ing of  liis  words ;  but  in  an  instant,  cheek,  brow,  even  alj 


204  woman's  friendship. 

that  was  visible  of  her  dchcate  throat,  became  dyed  with 
glowing  crimson,  and  she  continued,  indignantly — "  It  must 
be  all  scandal,  Frank — the  basest,  most  unfounded." 

"  I  wish  it  were  ;  but,  unhappily,  it  is  a  confessed  fact,. 
now.  Some  one  whispered  it  to  Arlington,  and  of  course 
he  denied  it ;  vowed  that  it  was  false,  and  went  straight  to 
Belmont  himself,  declaring  he  must  relinquish  all  claim 
to  Miss  Belmont's  hand,  unless  her  father  gave  him  some 
positiv\^  assurance  of  the  falsity  of  the  charge.  Lord  Bel- 
mont equivocated,  and  tried  hard  to  throw  hi:n  off  the 
scent,  when,  to  the  utter  horror  of  both  parties,  the  Baron- 
ess threw  herself  at  Arlington's  feet,  as  if  to  implore  his 
mercy — tried  to  speak,  and,  fell  to  the  ground  in  strong  con- 
vulsions. The  whole  was  of  course  discovered,  and  Gerard, 
in  a  state  of  desperation,  is  gone  to  the  continent,  resigning 
all  his  pretensions,  and  his  union  with  such  a  family  is  at 
an  end  forever." 

"  The  poor  unhappy  girl  I"  ejaculated  Florence,  with  the 
most  unfeigned  commiseration. 

"  But  what  could  he  do.  Miss  Leshe  ?"  Frank  spoke 
with  even  more  than  his  usual  energy.  "  Could  a  man  of 
honor,  of  reputation,  unite  himself  with  one  of  such  dis- 
honorable birth?  Could  he,  with  the  least  particle  of 
feeling  either  for  himself  or  his  children,  have  acted  other- 


wise 


?" 


"It  is  too  dreadful  either  to  argue  or  think  upon,"  re- 
plied Florence  ;  "  but  it  seems  so  hard,  so  cruel,  that  the 
mnocent  should  thus  suffer  for  the  guilty." 
,  "  It  is  so,  yet  it  is  only  right,"  replied  Lord  St.  Maur. 
"Were  it  otherwise,  remorse  might  forever  sleep,  and  guilt 
itself  receive  no  check.  Miss  Belmont,  indeed,  demands 
our  commiseration,  but  poor  Arlington  not  less  so." 

"  He  is  much  less  to  be  pitied,  than  had  this  denouemeyit 
taken  place  after  his  marriage,"  rejomed  Howard  "I  call 
hun  a  fortunate  fellow  in  spite  of  all." 

"  My  dear  Frank,  you  speak  as  if  you  had  no  sympathy 
whatever  with  his  feelings  towards  his  betrothed  :  can  they 
DC  conquered  in  an  hour,  think  you  ?" 

"  Perhaps  not.  Were  I  in  his  place  I  should  be  too 
grateful  for  my  escape  from  such  ignominy  to  retain  any 
other  emotion." 


^VOMAN'S    FRIENDSHIP.  205 

"*He  jests  at  scars  who  never  felt  a  wound,'"  replied 
Lord  St.  Maur,  half  smiling.     Frank  became  more  earnest. 

"  Indeed,  my  lord,  I  mean  what  I  say ;  the  more  1 
loved,  the  more  determined  should  I  be  upon  an  everlast' 
ing  separation  in  such  a  case.  Could  I  bear  one  stigma 
to  fling  the  faintest  shadow  on  the  being  I  had  chosen,  oi 
on  any  one  belonging  to  her  ?  The  veriest  torture  of  un- 
conquered  love  would  be  preferable  to  such  continued 
fear ;  sj  heaven  preserve  me  from  such  an  ill-fated  attacn 
ment  I" 

"  Amen  !  for  notwithstanding  the  harsh  sound  of  youi 
words,  they  have  but  too  much  truth  in.  them,"  replied  the 
Countess. 

"I  will  not  argue  on  their  justice  or  injustice,  for  the 
subject  is  too  painful:  dismiss  it,  pray,  and  tell  us  some 
thing  more  worth  hearing ;  I  hate  the  very  whisper  of  such 
themes." 

And  so  do  we,  gentle  reader ;  and  had  not  this  conversa- 
tion, trifling  as  it  seems,  been  absolutely  necessary  for  the 
clear  elucidation  of  some  future  portions  of  our  tale^  we 
should  have  dismissed  it  altogether. 

Who,  amongst  us,  has  not  felt  at  one  period  or  another 
of  our  mortal  career  the  truth  of  Moore's  beautiful  lines  ? — 

"  Tliere  is  a  dread  in  all  delight, 
A  shadow  near  each  ray, 
That  bids  us  then  to  fear  their  flight 
When  most  we  wish  their  stay." 

A  sort  of  quivering  happiness,  which  carries  us  for  th* 
time  out  of  ourselves,  sheds  a  sudden  glow  of  joy  ovgi 
the  simplest  things— bids  us  tread  the  earth  as  if  it  had 
no  care  nor  shade — fills  the  heart  with  a  kind  of  elastic 
buoyancy — makes  the  eye  dance  in  its  light,  the  voice 
becomes  song  in  its  child-like  glee ;  and  yet,  in  the  midsT 
of  this,  an  under-current  of  sadness  makes  itself  heard  for 
a  brief  moment,  wliispering,  "  This  cannot  last :  banish  it 
ere  it  bring  woe,"  and  then,  again,  it  is  lost  in  the  voice  of 
joy  ;  nor  is  it  recalled  till  some  sudden  grief  quenches  the 
brilliant  hght,  and  we  feel  that  intense  happiness  has  but 
cradled  sorrow. 

For  the  comparatively  long  period  of  one  month,  Flo- 
38 


206  woman's   friendship. 

rence  was  under  the  influence  of  this  strange  joyousness. 
even  during  its  continuance  she  felt  it  unnatural ;  but  in 
spite  of  all  her  efTorts,  she  could  not  dim  the  sparkling  cur- 
rent in  which  life  flowed  by;  she  could  not  define  ita 
source ;  perhaps  she  did  not  ask  herself,  content  alone  to 
feel.  Every  day  seemed  in  itself  a  little  age  of  joy.  Her 
pleasures  of  the  evening  were  enhanced  by  the  recollection 
of  duties  satisfactorily  accomplished  in  the  morning  ;  the 
duties  of  the  morning  sweetened  by  the  meimory  of  some 
kindness,  some  appreciation,  or  some  intellectual  improve- 
ment of  the  previous  evening  ;  and  even  a  dance  could  be 
enjoyed  with  the  elasticity  and  zest  of  former  years.  Her 
letters  from  home  heightened  this  enjoyment.  Mrs.  Leslie 
had  been  more  than  usually  sufiering,  but  the  last  sis 
weeks  had  seemed  so  wonderfully  well,  that  she  could  even 
walk  to  the  Hall  to  superintend  some  new  arrangements 
which  Lady  St.  Maur  wished  completed.  Her  very  preca- 
rious health,  the  consciousness  that  the  disease  mider  which 
she  labored  was  indeed  incurable,  had  always  been  present 
to  the  imagination  of  Florence,  ever  preventing  happiness 
frorn  being  perfect  ;  but  now  even  this  seemed  to  have  lost 
its  dread.  She  could  not  realize  anxiety,  though  she  actu- 
ally sought  it,  so  fully  convinced  did  she  feel  that  this  un- 
natural happiness  could  not  last,  and  actually  longing  foi 
some  slight  "  shadow  near  the  ray,"  to  prevent  some  greater 
woe.  It  was,  perhaps,  a  superstitious  feeling,  but  who  has 
not  known  its  influence  ? 

On  reporting  Mrs.  Leslie's  wonderfully  improved  health, 
to  Sir  Charles  Brashleigh,  he  looked  so  graTe,  that  the 
Countess  became  alarmed ;  and  when  Florence  had  left 
til  em,  he  avowed  that  he  did  not  Hke  the  accounts.  Li  a 
disease  like  Mrs.  Leslie's,  such  sudden  improvements  but 
too  often  predicted  either  a  fearful  increase  of  sufiering,  or 
its  termination.  Cautiously  and  tenderly  Lady  St.  Maur, 
in  consequence,  entreated  Florence  not  to  build  too  much 
on  the  continuance  of  Mrs.  Leslie's  present  health,  propo- 
6UIQ  that  she  should  go  down  and  spend  a  week  with  her 
mother,  that  she  might  judge  of  her  herself,  and  advise  her 
from  Sir  Charles  not  to  tax  her  new-found  strength  too 
muoh.  Florence  eagerly  assented,  promising,  however,  to 
wait  quietly  till  the  morrow's  post. 


woman's   friendship.  207 

Anxiety  thus  aroused  no  longer  eluded  her  grasp^,  and 
she  counted  the  hours  till  the  morning's  post  should  come 
in,  turning  almost  sick  with  suspense  ;  yet  failing  in 
Btrength  to  make  any  inquiry  even  when  she  knew  the 
hour  had  come  and  past,  and  no  letter  had  been  brought 
to  her  as  usual.  Not  ten  minutes  afterwards  the  Countess 
entered,  and  one  glance  on  her  face  sufficed  for  Florence 
to  sink  back  powerless  on  her  chair. 

"  You  shall  set  off  directly,  dearest.  Do  not  look  so 
alarmed.  Your  mother  has  had  a  return  of  her  old  attacks, 
and  rather  more  violently  than  usual ;  but  it  may  pass  off 
again  as  it  has  often  done.  My  dear  Florence,  do  not  let 
strength  fail  you  now." 

' '  But  Avhy  has  not  Minie  written  to  me  as  usual  ? 
Something  dreadful  has  occurred.  Oh  I  Lady  St.  Maur, 
in  pity  do  not  hide  it  from  me  ;  I  can  better  bear  it  than 
suspense." 

"  Minie  was  too  anxious,  my  love.  You  know  she  is 
very  young  to  endure  any  thing  like  care.  Will  you  pro- 
mise me  to  try  and  be  calm,  and  not  magnify  evil,  if  I  let 
you  read  this  letter  ?  «  Ferrers  feared  to  alarm  you,  and  so 
very  wisely  wrote  to  me." 

Florence  grasped  the  letter,  struggling  to  suppress  the 
hysterical  emotion  which  almost  choked  her  as  she  read. 
Her  mother,  it  appeared,  had  not  only  exerted  herself 
more  than  usual,  in  walking  to  and  from  the  hall,  but 
had  also  employed  several  hours  in  writing  ;  an  exeicise 
generally  painful.  The  night  before,  Ferrers  stated,  that 
she  had  left  her  mistress  at  her  desk,  and  retired  to  her 
own  room  adjoining.  How  long  she  slept  she  did  not 
kno^,  but  it  seemed  some  hours,  when  she  was  awakened 
by  a  heavy  fall  Startled  and  terrified,  she  rushed  into 
Mrs.  Leslie's  room,  and  found  her  extended  motionless, 
and  perfectly  insensible,  on  the  floor.  Several  papers 
were  scattered  on  the  table,  and  the  pen  was  still  we* 
with  ink.  The  fit  had  lasted  several  hours  ;  and  though 
she  had  rallied  a  little,  and  appeared  sensible  of  surround- 
ing objects,  and  Minie' s  intense  grief,  every  effort  to  speak 
had  been  unavaihng,  or  merely  produced  unintelligible 
murmurs.  Ferrers  concluded  by  expressmg  her  own  fears 
that  she  was  sinking  rapidly. 


?08  woman's     FRIENDSIirP. 

Florence  indeed  took  in  the  sense  of  this  hurried  lerl<?r, 
but  all  seemed  enveloped  in  mist,  she  afterwards  said, 
until  she  found  herself  standing  by  her  mother's  bedside  ; 
but  when  there,  the  sight  of  that  dear  face,  so  wan,  so 
altered,  seeming  as  if  already  fixed  in  death,  the  sudden 
change  overspreading  her  features,  as  her  dim  eye  caught 
sight  of  her  child,  the  convulsive  eflbrt  for  speech,  all 
fixed  themselves  indehbly  on  memory  ;  though  at  the  time 
Florence  could  only  sink  on  her  loiees  beside  her,  and 
bury  her  face  in  the  bed-clothes. 

There  was  still  motion  in  that  death-like  form,  one 
hand  moved  languidly  as  if  to  rest  on  her  child's  lowly- 
bent  head,  and  it  seemed  to  the  sisters  as  if  that  treasured 
voice  breathed  articulately — "  Florence,  my  beloved,  bless 
— "  Florence  started  to  her  feet,  and  bending  over  the 
dying,  imprinted  kiss  after  kiss  on  her  lip,  brow,  and  cheek, 
compelling  herself  to  composure,  even  while  her  limb? 
shook  as  if  they  must  fail  beneath  her, 

Mrs.  Leslie  evidently  strove  to  speak,  but  her  voice  was 
so  changed  as  scarcely  to  be  intelligible.  "  My  child, 
burn — ^forget — my  own,  my  own — oh  God  !  bless,  bless 
both  my  children  I" — she  murmured,  with  other  words, 
meaningless  and  strange  to  those  that  heard  them.  But 
why  should  we  linger  on  this  scene  of  sufiering  ?  Life 
appeared  strugghng  A^dth  death  to  permit  the  utterance  of 
something,  that  Vv'ould  not  leave  those  lips,  and  death  was 
conqueror  ;  for  ere  morning  dawned  all  was  awful  stillness 
in  that  heart  and  frame. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI, 

THE  PAPERS. THE  REQUEST, 

The  first  m.onth  of  their  sad  bereavement  was  spent  by 
!he  sisters  in  mournful  seclusion,  endeavoring  to  obtain 
resignation  and  strength.  Theirs  had  been  a  more  than 
common  trial ;  for  death  had  come  darkly  and  terribly. 
Florence  could  not  conquer  the  fanoy  that  her  poor  mother 
had  sufiered  not  alone  physically,  but  from  the  agonizing 


woman's    FE-IENDSHlx-.  209 

wish  to  say  soinething,  for  which  she  had  not  power.  The 
dying  look  haunted  her,  the  expression  of  those  dear  eyes 
which,  even  in  death,  remained  open,  till  her  o^vn  hand  closed 
them,  seemed  to  linger  on  her  full  of  pity,  of  love,  and  yet 
beseechingly,  as  if  they  asked  that  which  her  lips  were 
powerless  to  do.  Oh  I  how  she  longed  that  that  voice  had 
addressed  them  in  its  own  loved  tone  once,  but  once,  ere  it 
was  hushed  forever. 

To  Minie  the  horror  of  that  death  was  such,  she  could  not 
rally  from  its  recollection.  Nervous  tremors  continually 
disturbed  her  night  and  day.  She  tried  to  conquer  her 
feehngs,  and  Florence  did  all  that  soothing  -love  could 
dictate  ;  but  for  Bomo  time  all  m  vam.  Lady  St.  Maur  left 
all  the  gayeties  of  London  to  go  down  to  the  Hall,  and  re- 
maining there  a  fortnight,  spent  day  after  day  with  the 
young  mourners ;  seeking,  by  the  truest  sympathy  and 
warmest  kindness,  to  alleviate  their  grief,  and  even  in  such 
a  trial  it  was  some  consolation  to  feel  they  were  not  utterly 
friendless  and  alone. 

On  examination  of  Mrs.  Leshe's  will,  her  little  property, 
which  the  success  of  Walter's  work  had  much  increased, 
was  found  to  be  equally  divided  between  her  daughters, 
as  were  her  few  trinkets  and  other  personal  possessions. 
It  was  at  first  considered,  by  Lord  and  Lady  St.  Maur, 
that  it  would  perhaps  be  happier  for  the  sisters  to  hve,  ^s 
they  now  could  do,  uidependently  together  ;  but  that  if 
Florence  still  preferred  remaining  with  them,  her  home 
should  be  Minie's  also.  Meanwhile  Lady  Mary  Yilliers, 
who  had  found  time  and  feehng  in  the  midst  of  her  own 
happiness  to  sympathize  with  her  favorite,  travelled  down 
to  the  sisters'  cottage  expressly  to  persuade  Mbiie  to  ac- 
company her  on  a  projected  tour  through  "Wales  and  Scot- 
land ;  assuring  her  that  the  change  of  air  and  scene  would 
do  her  more  good  than  any  thing.  She  should  be  quite 
quiet,  join  in  no  unseemly  gayety,  as  their  ovm  family  and 
Mr.  Melford  composed  the  whole  of  the  travelling  party. 
Minie  felt  as  if  the  exertion  would  be  far  too  painful ; 
behoving,  as  the  young  are  prone  to  do  under  sorrow, 
that  nothing  could  ever  make  her  happy  or  mirthful  again. 
The  earnest  persuasions  of  her  sister,  the  representations 
of    the    Countess,   the   pleadings   of    Lady   Mary,    whom 

18* 


210  woman's   friendship 

-^ 
Bhe  really   loved,   at  length  however  prevailed,   and  she 
accepted  with  gratitude  the  kindness  proffered. 

]S[oarly  two  months  after  Mrs.  Leslie's  death,  Minie 
joined  her  friend.  Florence  was  to  return  to  Lady  St. 
Maur  the  following  week,  having  still  some  affairs  to  settle 
ere  she  could  leave  the  cottage  ;  particularly  the  arrange- 
ment of  her  mother's  papers,  which  task  from  a  pecuharly 
painful  repugnance  she  had  postponed  from  day  to  day, 
and  at  last  resolved  not  to  attempt  till  after  Minie's  depar- 
ture. Ferrers  had  told  her  it  had  been  evidently  in  the 
very  act  of  writing  that  Mrs.  LesUe's  fatal  attack  had 
seized  her )  and  there  was  something  on  poor  Florence's 
heart  which  made  her  turn  giddy  with  emotion  whenever 
she  thought  of  those  papers,  traced  by  the  hand  of  the 
dying,  containing  perhaps  those  very  words  which  her 
voice  had  not  power  to  pronounce.  It  was  strange, 
perhaps,  that  this  very  circumstance  had  not  urged  her 
to  examine  them  long  ere  this  ;  but  she  shrank  from  the 
task,  vainly  endeavoring  to  define  why.  Was  it  presen- 
timent ?  We  firmly  believe  in  the  existence  of  such  a 
feeling,  a  dim  shadow  undefinable  and  vague,  and  utterly 
shapeless,  yet  impossible  to  be  withstood.  Florence,  how- 
ever, had  too  strong  a  mind  to  give  way  to  such  repugnance. 
It  was  the  first  time  she  had  entered  the  chamber  since  her 
mother's  death,  and  for  several  minutes  she  stood  upon 
the  threshold,  as  if  she  could  not  pass  it,  as  if  death  were 
still  there,  and  hand  in  hand  with  desolation,  sm.ote  upon 
her  heart.  It  was  about  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and 
the  sun  shone  with  mocking  brilliance  within  the  rose- 
trellised  casements,  and  the  song  of  the  birds  seomed  so 
discordantly  gay,  that  a  feeling  almost  of  irritation  came 
upon  her.  The  consciousness  of  its  sinfulness  instantly 
followed,  and  flinging  herself  on  her  knees  by  the  bed, 
she  prayed  fervently  for  submissiveness  and  strength. 
Unlocking  the  escritoire,  she  drew  a  table  near  her,  and 
prepared  to  look  over  the  papers  and  arrange  them 
The  first  page  which  struck  her  was  evidently  that  on 
which  her  mother's  pen  had  last  rested  ;  it  was  blotted  as 
if  the  pen  had  fallen  on  it,  and  the  last  few  words  were 
almost  illegible.  Yet  her  eye  was  arrested  on  them 
instant^-/ :    she   read   her   own   name — ^her    mother    was 


woman's   Frwij::NDsniF  211 

addressing  her.  "With  a  sudden  and  convulsive  move- 
ment, she  caught  up  other  closely  vvTitten  papers,  and 
looked  for  their  commencement ;  words  seemed  to  catch 
her  strained  gaze,  and  absolutely  rivet  it  upon  them,  hut 
still  as  in  desperation  she  sought  the  beginning,  arranging 
the  sheets  consecutively  as  she  did  so  ;  and  then  she  read, 
and  her  cheek  gradually  grew  blanched,  and  then  her  Up, 
but  still  there  was  no  movement.  Hour  after  hour  passed, 
and  found  her  in  the  same  occupation  on  the  same 
?pot. 

Ferrers  was  out  for  the  day,  and  only  one  other  servant, 
a  simple  country  girl,  was  in  the  house.  About  three 
o'clock  the  girl  knocked  at  the  door,  to  say  dinner  was 
waiting  in  the  parlor.  .Florence  replied  composedly  in 
words,  but  her  voice  sounded  in  her  own  ears  so  strangely 
altered  that  she  looked  round  in  terror,  thinking  some  one 
else  had  spoken.  Then  she  deliberately  folded  up  those 
papers  one  by  one,  tied  them  together,  and  with  them  still 
in  her  hand,  rose  from  her  seat ;  she  made  a  few  steps 
forward,  as  if  to  reach  the  door,  but  a  strange  mist  was 
before  her  eyes,  the  room  reeled ;  and  when  Fanny  re- 
turned, wondering  she  did  not  come,  she  found  her  fallen 
forwards  on  the  ground,  to  all  appearance  hfeless. 
Though  much  terrified,  the  girl  did  all  she  could  think 
of  to  restore  animation.  Sense  returned  at  length,  but 
so  slowly,  and  with  so  little  semblance  of  life  in  the 
marble  stillness  of  Florence's  features,  that  Fanny  en- 
treated her  to  let  her  run  to  the  Hall,  and  get  them  to 
send  for  medical  advice.  Life  itself  seemed  to  return 
with  her  violent  effort  for  speech  to  negative  this  pro- 
posal. 

"No,  no,  no,"  she  wildly  cried,  as  she  struggled  to 
rise ;  "  send  for  no  one  ;  I  %hall  be  well ;  I  am  well. 
Tell  no  one  of  tliis  as  you  love  me,  be  silent  and  leave 
me." 

She  sank  back  axhausted,  but  alter  a  few  minutes 
again  waved  her  hand  impatiently,  and  Fanny  was  obliged 
to  leave  her.  She  returned  at  intervals,  satisfied  at 
length  that  after  a  lapse  of  nearly  two  hours  Florence 
epoke  more  like  herself.  But  still,  hour  after  hour 
passed,   and  she   made  no  effort  to  quit  the  chamber  oi 


212  woman's   friendship. 

the.  couch  on  which  she  lay.  Her  hands  were  tightly 
clasped  together,  her  eyes  gazed  on  vacancy ;  her  lip  and 
eyelid  sometimes  moving  convulsively,  as  if  tears  were 
near,  but  none  came.  All  was  cold,  rigid,  motionless  as 
stone. 

Evening  came,  and  with  it  the  postman,  bringing  a 
large  packet,  directed  by  the  Earl.  She  opened  it  mechan- 
ically ;  there  was  a  strange-looking,  seemingly  a  lawyer's 
paper,  and  a  long  kind  note  from  Lady  St.  Maur.  Yet 
even  this  last  she  read  many  times  ere  she  could  understand 
2  single  line.  At  last  she  became  conscious  the  Countess 
was  alluding  to  the  paper  mclosed. 

"  Do  examine  it,  dearest  Florence,  and  let  me  kaow 
what  it  25  even  before  you  come.  The  Earl  is  so  very 
curious,  that  were  it  not  for  punctilio,  I  believe  he  would 
have  been  tempted  to  open  and  examine  it ;  neither  he  nor 
I  can  imagine  what  you  can  have  to  do  with  laAA^er's 
papers.  But  I  really  am  unconscionable  to  ask  you  to 
write ;  I  forget  you  will  not  receive  this  till  Monday 
evening,  and  you  come  on  Wednesday.  I  shall  long  for 
you  more  than  ever.  Constance  is  very  good ;  I  look  at 
her  with  astonishment,  and  think  you  a  worker  of  wonders. 
All  my  darlings  are  well ;  there  are  many  inquiries  as  to 
when  Miss  Leslie  will  come  back.  I  will  not  say  how 
much  Lady  Helen  and  I  miss  you,  but  we  all  look  forward 
to  "Wednesda3^  If  that  should  prove  a  settlement  of 
marriage  from  some  invisible  bridegroom,  what  shall  we 
do?" 

Florence  mechanically  took  up  the  papers,  and  broke 
th;3  seal ;  but  in  vain  she  tried  to  understand  the  contents. 
The  very  writing  seemed  illegible,  though  in  reality  it 
was  clear  enough.  Paper  and  pens  were  near  her,  and 
after  having  read  the  closely  written  letter  through  three 
times  without  comprehending  a  single  word,  she  wTote  a 
few  hues  to  Lady  St.  Maur,  begging  her  to  excuse  the 
hasty  scrawl,  as  she  had  been  very  unwell  all  day,  and 
still  felt  confused,  v/hich  perhaps  was  her  best  excuse  for 
entreating  Lord  St.  Maur  to  examine  the  papers  for  her, 
as  she  found  it  impossible  to  understand  them.  It  waa 
either  a  mistake,  or  she  was  laboring  midcr  some  strange 


woman's  friendship.  213 

delusion.  She  read  her  note  carefully  over,  it  seemed 
correct,  but  she  dared  not  assure  herself  it  was,  for  a 
weight  of  lead  seemGd  crushing  all  consciousness  from  her 
brain. 

Night  came,  and  Florence  mechanically  retired  to  bed, 
but  there  was  neither  rest  nor  sleep  for  her.  If  for  a  few 
minutes  she  dozed  from  utter  exhaustion,  it  was  to  start  up 
Rgain  from  the  most  frightful  images,  to  press  her  hands 
on  her  aching  temples,  and  pray  that  madness  might  not 
be  her  portion,  for  she  felt  as  if  it  already  were  ;  and  the 
very  prayers  seemed  mockery,  for  her  heart  rebelled,  and 
the  question,  why  was  she  doomed  to  all  this  misery  ? 
was  mentally  reiterated  till  her  brain  burned  and  reeled. 
So  passed  the  night,  and  so  the  following  day,  yet  she 
did  all  she  had  power  to  do.  She  was  so  calm,  so  collected 
in  outward  seeming,  that  Ferrers,  though  she  did  think  her 
strangely  pale,  neither  made  nor  felt  the  inclination  to 
make  any  remark. 

The  evening  of  Wednesday  found  her  at  St.  James's, 
welcomed  with,  if  possible,  more  than  usual  kindness  by 
her  friends.  Lady  St.  Maur  looked  unusually  arch,  as  if 
she  had  something  very  delightful  to  communicate,  but 
Florence  scarcely  saw  it.  She  had  trembled  so  exces- 
sively on  first  entering  the  house,  that  all  her  energy  was 
roused  to  control  herself,  and  hide  from  every  eye  the 
anguish  which  was  consuming  heart  and  mind. 

"  So  you  actually  read  that  important  letter,  my  dear 
Florence,  without  understanding  its  contents  ;  you  really 
must  be  more  of  a  simpleton  than  I  have  yet  believed 
ya^,'  said  the  Countess,  laughing;  "What  could  have 
possessed  you  ?     I  do  believe  you  never  even  read  it." 

"  Indeed,  I  did,  no  less  than  three  times,  but  I  had  a 
stupefying  headache  all  day,  and  so  vainly  tried  to  under- 
stand a  line,"  replied  Florence,  with  a  slight  shudder, 
which  made  the  Countess  look  at  her  more  attentively. 

"  And  I  think  the  headache  has  not  left  you  yet.  Why 
my  dear  girl,  you  are  looking  much  worse  than  when  1 
left  you  six  weeks  ago.  Florence  I  fear  your  time  hag 
been  more  weakly  than  wisely  em.ployed  since  you  havo 
been  aWne.     Must  I  chide  instead  of  congratulate  you  ?" 


214  woman's   friendship 

"  Congratulate  I"  repeated  Florence,  in  a  tone  so  liollo^v, 
it  startled  even  herself.  Lady  St.  Maur  put  her  arm 
round  her 

"  You  are  ill,  exhausted,  dearest ;  so  I  must  be 
merciful ;  perhaps  jesting  is  ill  timed,  but  your  letters 
made  me  hope  that  you  were  recovering  the  first  effects 
of  your  sad  trial.  I  am  so  rejoiced  at  the  contents  of 
that  letter,  that  I  fancy  you  must  be  equally  so ;  for- 
getting that  independence,  even  riches  may,  at  such  a 
moment  seem  of  little  worth.*' 

"  Independence  I  riches  I"  repeated  Florence,  turning 
her  pale  face  towards  the  Countess,  with  a  gaze  of  be 
wilderment.     "  "VYhat  can  you  mean  ?" 

"  Simply,  my  dear  Miss  Leslie,"  replied  the  Earl, 
coming  forward,  and  taking  her  hand  kindly,  that  the 
letter  so  perfectly  incomprehensible  to  you,  is  as  perfectly 
clear  to  us,  and  gives  me  the  happiness  of  informing  you, 
that  as  the  acknowledged  heiress  of  Mrs.  Susan  Uivers, 
of  Woodlands,  lately  deceased,  you  are  now  the  sole  pos- 
sessor of  a  large  estate,  and  all  its  appurtenances,  with 
the  not  inconsiderable  addition  of  seven  thousand  a  year. 
Will  you  now  try  and  read  Mr.  Carlton's  letter  with  the 
assistance  of  my  notes,  and  annotations,  or  believe  this 
truth  on  my  simple  word  ?" 

Florence  looked  almost  wildly  at  the  speaker.  The 
words  had  indeed  reached  his  ear ;  but  the  expression  of 
her  features  was  far  more  of  suffering  than  joy. 

"  Mrs.  Susan  Rivers  !  Woodlands  I  it  must  be  a  mistake 
She  means  Flora,  Mrs.  Hardwicke.  I  can  have  no  claim," 
she  said  at  intervals  ;  "  dead  !  when  and  where,  and  how 
is  this  ?  Forgive  me,  my  lord ;  but  indeed  I  can  scarcely 
miderstand  it  now." 

"  Then  let  me  try  if  I  can  make  it  clearer,"  replied  the 
Earl,  sitting  down  by  her,  and  producing  the  papers  ;  "  it 
appears,  from  Carlton's  letter,  that  Mrs.  Rivers  has  been 
living  for  the  last  three  years  in  an  obscure  village  in 
Wales.  The  honesty  of  her  steward,  however,  preserved 
»ier  estate  on  such  good  condition,  that  combmed  with  her 
oMTi  miserly  method  of  living,  her  income  has  materially  in- 
creased. About  a  year  ago,  her  steward,  at  her  request, 
did  all  he  could  to  find  you  out,    and  through  her  bankers 


woman's  friendship.  215 

in  London  learned  at  length  your  destination  with  us. 
Your  claims  upon  her  seem  to  have  consisted  in  her  vivid 
remembrance  of  your  unchanging  regard  ar*d  respect 
towards  herself,  so  long  as  she  permitted  you  to  show  it ; 
and  another  very  extraordinary  clause,  that  as  you  were 
the  only  person  she  had  ever  known,  who  had  loved  and 
trusted  a  friend,  and  yet  not  been  deceived,  you  must  pos- 
sess some  unusual  qualities  over  and  above  those  which 
had  so  attracted  her  regard  ;  and  were  therefoi>c5  Hkely  to 
make  good  use  of  and  enjoy  the  wealth  which  to  her  had 
so  long  been  a  worthless  toy.  She  therefore  bequeaths  to 
Florence  Leshe,  eldest  daughter  of  Edward  and  Maiy 
Leslie,  the  whole  of  her  large  possessions  both  in  land  and 
money,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  legacies.  These  are 
the  heads  of  the  lawyer's  letter  ;  and  having  seen  him  to- 
day, I  have  further  to  tell  you,  that  you  are  not  only  an 
heiress,  but  an  undisputed  one.  No  costs  ;  no  lawyer's 
long  bills  ;  nor  even  any  relation  of  Mrs.  Rivers  who  would 
be  wronged  by  such  a  will.  Now,  then,  do  you  understand, 
and  can  you  wonder  at  Ida's  astonishment  at  your  non- 
comprehension  of  this  very  important  letter  ?" 

"  And  will  you  not  accept  my  warmest  congratulations, 
dearest  Florence  ?  "VYe  know  the  little  worth  of  mere 
riches  ;■  but  we  will  not  abuse  them,  when  they  come  as 
now,  enabling  you  to  do  the  good  your  inclination  prompts, 
and  take  that  station  which  your  birth,  talents,  and  virtuesf 
all  demand." 

"  Birth  demands  !  No,  no,  no ;  I  have  no  right,  no 
claim;  it  cannot,  cannot  be  I"  exclaimed  Florence,  so 
wildly,  so  incoherently,  that  both  the  Earl  and  Countess 
looked  at  her  with  alarm.  "  I  have  no  right  to  these 
riches  ;  they  are  not  mine.     I  can  have  no  legal  claim." 

"  My  dear  Florence,  you  are  bewildered  still ;  and  this 
sudden  surprise  is  too  much  for  you.  Try  and  think 
calmly  ;  are  you  not  Florence  Leslie,  the  eldest  daughter 
of  Edward  and  Mary  Leslie  ?  nay  even  your  birth  in 
Italy  is  so  clearly  specified,  that  there  can  be  no  mistake 
as  to  your  identity.  Are  you  not  this  very  Florence  ?  Do 
you  not  love  the  very  name  of  Italy,  rejoicing  that  it  wa» 
your  birth-place  ?  How  I  used  to  smile  at  your  enthusiasm, 
when  I  first  knew  you  I     Florence,  my  dear  Florence — ^you 


216  woman's   friendship. 

are  ill,  faint ;  your  journey  has  been  too  much  for  you," 
she  continued  abruptly,  as  she  noticed  Florence's  very  lip 
become  Aviiite,  while  her  whole  frame  shivered  convulsively  ; 
and  she  only  saved  her  by  a  quick  movement  from  falling 
to  the  ground.  Alarmed  as  they  were,  still  they  only 
considered  it  the  eflects  of  physical  weakness  produced 
from  contending  feelings.  She  recovered  but  slowly,  and 
Lady  St.  Maur,  as  she  bent  down  to  kiss  her,  merely 
whispered  soothingly — 

"  Forget  every  thing  that  can  agitate,  or  disturb  you  now, 
dearest.  Only  think  of  our  dear  Minie,  of  v/hat  you  may 
have  the  power  of  doing  for  her ;  and  even  if  this  unex- 
pected wealth  be  of  little  value  to  yourself,  for  her  sake  I 
know  you  will  soon  acknoAvledge  its  importance,  not  alone 
with  gratitude  but  joy." 

'*  Minie  I"  repeated  Florence,  and  that  name  seemed 
endowed  with  power  to  restore  her  to  perfect  conciousness  ; 
"  yes,  yes,  I  have  still  her  to  love  and  cherish,  to  give  back 
in  part  all  that  has  been  given.  Oh,  God  I  oh,  God  I  for- 
give me  ;  this  m.ercy  has  not  been  sent  in  vain." 

Lady  St.  Maur  alone  heard  these  murmured  words,  and 
to  her  they  were  intelligible  enough,  as  confirming  her 
idea  that  Florence's  emotion  was  occasioned  by  the  thought 
that  wealth  had  come  too  late  ;  those  for  whose  dear  sakes 
it  would  have  been  so  valuable  had  passed  away,  and  what 
then  could  it  be  to  her  ?  Little  could  she  dream  of  the 
cause  of  that  deadly  sickness,  the  wild  yearning  on  that 
aching  heart  to  flee  away  and  be  at  rest. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIL 

INJURY    FORGIVEN. 

That  night  Florence  sat  alone  ui  her  own  room,  hours, 
lv;iig  hours  after  all  other  eyes  were  closed  in  peaceful 
slumber  ;  her  hair  loosed,  and  pushed  from  her  throbbing 
brow,  as  if  its  weight  were  insupportable.  One  thought 
Bl'ione  out,  clear,  distinct,  and  at  such  a  moment  almost 
maddening  in  its  intensity,  from  the  dead  weight  of  iiiiseiy 


woman's   ??vIendsiiip.  217 

which  seemed  to  have  fallen  on  her.  She  knew  she  loved, 
and  one  whose  own  words  had  thrown  an  insuperable 
barrier  between  them.  Why  had  those  words  come  noAV, 
as  if  written  in  fire  on  her  brain  ?  What,  what  could 
they  be  to  her?  He  did  not  love  her — it  was  not  his 
happiness  she  wrecked  ;  and  her  bruised  heart  struggled 
for  quietness,  for  strength  in  that  one  reviving  thought. 
Alas !  she  overtasked  herself  She  could  not,  indeed, 
recall  a  word,  or  tone,  or  murmur,  which  could  reveal  that 
he  felt  more  than  simple  kindness  towards  her ;  and  yet, 
in  all  the  incongruity  of  mental  torture,  she  lingered  on 
the  idea  that  she  was  beloved,  and  her  doom  was  tc  wreck 
his  happiness  even  as  her  own.  And  midst  these  thoughts 
never  once  did  the  recollection  of  her  unexpected  inherit- 
ance arise,  save  instantly  to  be  repelled  with  a  loathing 
shudder,  as  if,  coming  at  such  a  moment,  it  was  associated 
only  with  misery  ;  while,  by  an  indefinable  contradiction, 
those  days  of  privation  and  suffering  encountered  before 
Lady  St.  Maur's  return,  were  suddenly  transformed  to 
actual  joy.  Yet  all  was  inward  ;  her  whole  being  rose  up 
against  the  betrayal  of  her  woe,  even  in  those  moments 
when  the  burden  of  that  fatal  secret  seemed  too  heavy  to 
be  borne. 

So  days  passed  on.  Florence  had  earnestly  entreated 
the  Countess  to  permit  her  continuing  her  former  occupa- 
tions in  the  family,  at  least  till  the  year  of  mourning  was 
at  an  end ;  not,  indeed,  as  a  salaried  governess,  but  simply 
because  she  preferred  instructing  Constance  in  her  retire- 
ment to  absolute  idleness.  In  vain  the  Earl  and  Count- 
ess combatted  this  resolution.  Florence  shrunk  from  the 
idea  of  rest  and  quietness  as  from  appalling  spectres, 
knowing  well  that  nothing  but  continued  occupation  could, 
in  any  degree  chain  thought.  She  had  been  so  happy  in 
that  employment,  that,  by  a  strange  pertinacity,  her  mind 
clung  to  it  as  if,  in  giving  it  up,  she  loosed  another  link 
from  the  past,  and  sank  yet  deeper  into  the  dark  abyss  of 
the  present.  "Let  me,  only  let  me  still  feel  myself  of  use 
to  you,"  was  her  reiterated  cry ;  "I  cannot  live  without 
being  of  service  to  any  one,  as  if  I  were  alone  upon  the 
earth.  Do  not,  in  mercy  do  not  give  me  time  to 
think  I" 

19 


218  woman's   friendship 


are  not  speaking  like  yourself,  Florence,"  she  said  :  "  I  am 
sure  you  arc  enduring  more  than  you  will  permit  me  to 
know ;  for  such  semblance  of  impatience  under  trial  is  not 
at  all  natural  to  you.  Granted  that  I  accede  to  your  re- 
quest, what  am  I  to  do  next  year  ?  I  shall  only  miss  your 
usefulness  the  more." 

"  Then  seek  for  some  one  to  su]3ply  my  place,  and  let 
me  feel  that  I  am  still  of  real  use  to  you  in  imparting  to 
her  your  plans  and  wishes,"  replied  Florence  ;  and  it  was 
strange  how  clearly,  in  the  midst  of  this  fiery  ordeal,  her 
mind  retained  its  energies,  as  if  more  effectually  to  pre- 
vent her  secret  being  revealed.  Partly  to  soothe  her,  and 
partly  to  enable  her  at  any  time  to  give  up  her  present  de- 
termination, Lady  St.  Maur  acceded  to  her  wishes,  She 
further  requested  the  Earl  to  act  for  her,  in  seeing  that  all 
Mrs.  Rivers'  behests  were  fulfilled.  She  had  an  inter 
view  with  Mr.  Carlton  ;  and  during  the  whole  dry,  busi- 
ness-hke  details  upon  which  she  was  compelled  to  enter, 
neither  intellect  nor  composure  failed.  The  lawyer  was 
pleased  with  her  acuteness  and  ready  comprehension  of  all 
his  lengthy  particulars.  One  very  important  question  he 
urged  upon  her — would  she,  or  would  she  not  continue 
Mrs.  Major  Hardwicke's  annuity  ?  It  was  entirely  at  hei 
option  :  Mrs.  Rivers  having  heard  rumors  of  injuries  which 
Miss  Leslie  had  received  from  that  quarter,  and  wishing  her 
to  act  with  perfect  freedom,  had  expressed  no  desire  herself 
on  the  subject. 

"  You  will  then  have  the  kindness  to  treble  that  annuity," 
was  her  instant  and  unhesitating  reply.  "  And  should  you 
ever  discover  that  Mrs.  Hardwicke  requires  more,  you  will 
oblige  me  by  instantly  making  application  to  me.  Above  all, 
let  this  annuity  be  made  a  settlement  on  her  and  on  her 
heirs.  I  do  not  wish  her  to  feel  herself  under  any  obliga- 
tion to  me  personally,  or  give  any  one  the  power  of  with- 
drawing it." 

Mr.  Carlton  understood  her  perfectly,  and  promised 
compliance.  "Woodlands  was  still  mhabited ;  the  term, 
howeveiSk  of  her  present  tenant  would  expire  within  the 
year  of  mourning  for  her  mother,  and  she  rather  rejoicc<J 


\VOM.\N    S     FRIENDSHIP.  219 

that  it  would  not  be  vacant  for  the  next  few  months,  as 
giving  her  time  to  thuik  of  her  future  plans.  The  steward 
she  also  saw  ;  and  prevailing  on  him  to  accept  the  gift  of 
a  rich  farm  on  the  Woodland  estate,  entreated  him  to  be 
to  her  all  he  h^d  been  to  his  former  mistress.  The  old 
man  was  rejoiced  at  seeing  her  again,  and  from  him  she 
heard  many  particulars  concerning  Mrs.  Rivers.  He  told 
her  that  she  had  gradually  become  more  and  more  infirm, 
but  had  rejected  every  persuasion  of  himself  and  her 
housekeeper  (the  only  two  persons  she  permitted  to  be 
about  her)  to  recall  herself  to  her  former  ac.|uaintances, 
till,  about  a  twelvemonth  previously,  she  had  consented  to 
inquiries  being  made  for  Mrs.  Leslie's  family,  but  secretly, 
as  she  wished  nothing  to  be  said  of  herself  until  her  mind 
was  quite  made  up  as  to  her  future  proceedings.  After 
many  disappointments,  Watson  learned  all  particulars, 
which,  when  imparted  to  his  mistress,  distressed  her  ex 
ceedingly.  She  reproached  herself  painfully  for  her 
selfish  shrinking  from  the  world,  and  the  useless  hoarding 
of  wealth,  wliich  judiciously  applied,  might  have  shielded 
Mrs.  Leslie  and  her  family  from  many  sorrows.  She 
never  rested,  after  Watson's  return,  until  her  will  was  made 
in  Miss  Leslie's  favor,  speaking  of  her  with  more  real 
affection  than  she  had  ever  been  heard  to  speak  of  any  one, 
but  still  persisting  in  refusmg  to  write  and  say  how  ill  she 
was,  and  how  much  she  really  wished  for  Florence.  "  No, 
no,"  she  repeated  ;  "  she  has  found  a  real  friend,  and  I  will 
not  take  her  from  her.  She  suffered  enough  from  coming 
to  me  before  :  I  will  not  risk  her  happiness  again." 
Atone  for  her  total  neglect  of  her  relatives  she  said  she 
could  not,  for  sho  could  not  bring  the  dead  to  life  ;  but  she 
woula  leave  all  she  possessed  to  Florence,  and  her  warmest 
blessing  with  it. 

Watson's  every  word  revealed  that  Mrs.  Rivers's  heai't 
had  dictated  the  will,  and  Florence  could  have  no  re- 
maining scruple.  The  Earl  and  Watson  consented  to 
%rther  the  young  heiress's  inchnations  on  all  points,  and 
Lady  St.  Maur  jestingly  assured  her  that,  Txdth  two  such 
agents,  she  ought  not  to  permit  a  single  care  to  sully  her 
unexpected  good  fortune,  prophesying  that,  little  as  Florence 


<220  WOMAN    S    FRIENDS  II 1 1'. 

seemed  to  rejoice  in  it  now,  there  would  come  a  day  when 
she  would  discover  that  nearly  nine  thousand  a  year  waa 
something  worth. 

Millie's  aflectionate  and  artless  letters  of  congratulation 
would,  at  any  other  time,  have  been  sources  of  unalloyed 
pleasure  ;  but  now,  though  she  spoke  and  acted  as  usual, 
she  was.  in  reality,  conscious  of  but  one  all-absorbing 
woe.  The  mind  bore  up,  but  the  frame  dwindled,  not- 
withstanding all  Lady  St.  Maur's  affectionate  care  :  she 
became  paler,  thinner,  more  drooping  every  week  ;  still 
the  Countess  imagined  nothing  beyond  ^^■hat  she  saw. 
If,  indeed,  she  sometimes  thought  Florence  was  not  quite 
so  "  fancy  free  "  as  when  she  first  came  to  her,  she  also 
thought  and  hoped,  too,  that  even  there  joy  was  dawning 
for  her.  But  here  Florence  puzzled  her  ;  her  manner  had 
become  cold,  reserved,  if  it  might  be,  even  proud  to  young 
Howard  ;  while  his  became,  each  time  they  met,  more 
respectfully  eager,  and  his  attention  more  decidedly 
marked.  Lady  St.  Maur  would  have  seriously  remon- 
strated with  Florence,  but  her  husband  entreated  her  not. 
"  I  have  a  particular  objection  both  to  making  and 
'marring  matches,  my  dear  Ida,"  he  said  ;  "  and  I  always 
find  the  very  best  way  is  to  let  lovers  alone  ;  they  always 
come  round  at  last." 

"  But  though  I  want  them  to  be  lovers,  I  begin  to  fear 
I  have  built  my  hopes  on  air,  instead  of  solid  earth,"  she 
replied.  "I  set  my  heart  on  this  match  long  ago,  and  was 
wicked  enough  to  wish  Lord  Glenvylle  out  of  the  way  ; 
for  I  know  Frank  himself  would  never  object  to  marrjdng  a 
portionless  bride.  I  am  certain  it  was  only  the  idea  of  his 
fathei's  refusing  his  consent  which  deterred  him  from  coming 
forward  before  ;  and  now  that  Florence  is  independent  as 
himself,  and  there  is  nothing  against  it,  she  becomes  cold, 
distant,  and  all  unlike  herself." 

**  But  perhaps  she  really  does  not  like  him ;  and  if  so,  she 
acts  very  properly." 

*'  I  am  very  certain  that  she  does  love  him,  as  only  a  girl 
like  that  can  love." 

"  And  who  made  you  so  wise,  love  ?"  asked  her  husband, 
imiling. 

•'  "Woman's  v/it,  and  woman's  intuitive  perception  of  all 


woman's   friendship,  221 

relating  to  her  own  sex,  my  dear  husband.  I  have  known 
Florence  too  many  years  not  to  discover  this,  although  not 
a  word  on  the  subject  has  ever  passed  betAveen  us.  Now, 
in  truth,  she  puzzles  me  ;  for  what  can  make  her  act  so 
contradictorily?"  ^ 

"  Perhaps  she  does  not  like  his  only  coming  forward  now. 
She  cannot  know  that  he  only  kept  aloof,  fearing  to  expose 
her  to  the  capricious  refusal  of  his  father.  It  is  not  at  all 
unlikely,  for  she  has  some  pride." 

"  Pride  !  she  has,  indeed  ;  and  if  this  should  be  the  case, 
it  would  be  a  real  kindness  to  give  Frank  a  hint,  and  let 
him  tell  the  truth.  I  am  half  inclined  :  I  do  so  dishke  mis- 
understandings." 

"  Take  care,  my  fair  diplomatist,"  Avas  the  Earl's  laugh- 
ing reply  ;  "do  not  spoil  all :  better  let  them  go  their  own 
way." 

Whether  the  Countess  followed  his  advice,  or  her  oAvn 
inclinations  on  this  important  subject,  we  know  not ;  but 
certain  it  is,  that  not  long  afterwards,  Florence  did  receive 
a  letter  from  young  Howard,  the  contents  of  which  were 
very  much  as  if  Lady  St.  Maur  had  really  given  him  an 
explanatory  hint. 


CHAPTER  XXXVin. 


13    IT   LOVE? — THE   LIBRARY. — THE    DECISION. — TELL   ME    THIS 
WEIGHTY   GRIEF. 

Frank  wrote  as  he  always  spoke — ^to  the  point,  and 
with  feehng.  Still,  though  Florence  felt  it  not,  passionate 
love  was  wanting.  An  offer  of  his  hand  it  certainly  was  ; 
and  a  warm  allusion  to  those  gentle  domestic  virtues 
which,  he  said,  had  so  riveted  his  regard,  that  he  felt  her 
acceptance  of  his  love  w^ould  make  him  far  happier  than 
he  had  ever  yet  been.  Still,  with  all  this,  it  was  much 
more  an  eloquent  vindication  of  what  might  have  appeared 
interested  in  his  conduct,  only  comhig  forward  then,  than 
the  letter  of  a  lover.  He  spoke  of  his  father's  prejudices ; 
that  knowing   his  consent  to  their  union  would  never  be 

19* 


222  woman's     FK-IENDSIIir. 

obtained  while  she  had  been  in  what  Lord  Glenvj'lle  termed 
a  dependent  position,  he  having  vowed  that  he  would  never 
permit  his  son's  marriage  with  any  but  an  heiress,  he  had 
feared  to  wreck  his  own  peace  and  hers ;  if,  indeed,  he 
might  hope  that  she  was  not  wholly  indiflerent  to  his  suit. 
He  conjured  her  not  to  believe  him  the  loving-money,  for- 
tune-hunting worldling  which  he  certainly  appeared,  to  put 
his  sincerity  to  any  proof  she  pleased,  but  not  to  judge  him 
thus  ;  concluding  by  entreating  her  to  show  by  her  manner 
that  evening,  whether  he  had  pleaded  inoeed  successfully 
or  in  vain. 

Meet  him  that  evening  I  and  it  depended  on  herse]f,  her- 
self alone  to  seal  her  happiness  or  misery  !  The  cheek 
grew  paler,  more  ghastly  still ;  the  Hp  more  iternly  rigid, 
and  the  storm  withm  seemed  to  crush  her  as  she  sat. 

"Love  me — why,  why  does  he  love  me?"  were  her 
mental  words.  "  Is  it  not  enough  to  bear  my  own  misery, 
but  I  must  have  his  also  to  endure  ?  But  why  must  this 
be  ?  Why  may  I  not  be  his  ?  "Who  is  to  Imow  the  truth 
that  he  has  called  down  upon  himself  the  very  evil  he 
forswore  ?  Why  should  I  doom  myself  to  misery  ?  He 
need  never  know  it."  And  for  one  brief  minute  her  fea- 
tures were  ht  up  with  the  sudden  irradiation  of  joy,  yet  it 
was  but  mocking  brilliance.  Pressing  both  hands  on  her 
throbbing  temples,  she  called  aloud  for  help  and  strength. 
"  No,  no,  I  cannot  wed  him  falsely.  If  I  speak,  it  shall 
be  the  truth ;  and  then,  will  he  woo  me  then  ?  No,  no, 
he  cannot,  Avill  not ;  -it  would  but  be  increase  of  misery 
for  him  and  for  myself.  He  can  better  conquer  love,  if  he 
believe  that  he  loves  alone.  Pride  will  rise  up  to  quell  it ; 
he  will  in  time  be  happy — may  forget  me.  Yes,  yes,  I  will 
be  silent,  cost  what  it  may.  I  care  not  for  myself.  Let 
him  be  happy,  let  liim  forget  me,  aye,  even  love  another, 
better,  far  better  than  link  his  fate  with  mine." 

Florence  herself  knew  not  the  inward  fervor  of  her 
prayer.  She  was  only  conscious  that  her  happiness  was 
in  her  own  hands,  and  she  had  decided  to  cast  it  from  her. 
She  wished  to  write  to  him  ;  to  tell  him  how  gratefully 
she  felt  his  uncalled-for  explanations,  though  she  could 
not  accept  his  offer.  But  in  vain  she  tried  to  write  these 
simple  words.     Sheet  after  sheet  she  spoiled  and  burnt, 


woman's  friendship.  223 

and  gave  up  the  task  in  despair;  and  then  she  thought, 
could  she  indeed  meet  him,  and  let  her  manner  speak  ? 
She  dared  not  trust  herself.  If  she  did  not  appear,  would 
not  that  he  an  all-sufficient  answer  ?  Hour  after  hour 
passed,  and  she  could  come  to  no  decision.  Again  and 
again  the  question  rose,  why  did  she  make  this  sacrifice  ? 
"Was  it  in  truth  needed,  or  was  she  dooming  heiself  to 
misery  uncalled  for?  Oh!  had  she  hut  one  friend  to 
whom  she  could  appeal  ;  and  then  the  childhke  trust  and 
faith  of  her  girlhood  seemed  to  steal  over  her,  leading  her 
to  that  only  Friend  who  could  aid  and  guide.  The  power 
of  prayer  had  of  late  seemed  denied  to  her,  hut  now  an 
inward  voice  called  her  to  her  Father's  throne,  and  she 
knelt  and  prayed  almost  calmly  for  guidance,  help  to  do 
that  which  his  wisdom  deemed  the  hest,  that  which  would 
tend  most  to  future  happiness  and  peace,  however  dark 
and  troubled  seemed  her  portion  now.  In  after  years,  she 
looked  back  on  that  hour  of  prayer  almost  in  awe,  for  she 
felt  that  words  had  been  put  into  her  mouth  ;  she  could  not 
of  herself  have  framed  them,  and  with  them  strength  had 
been  infused  to  preserve  her  from  a  doom  compared  with 
which  her  present  grief  was  joy.  When  she  rose,  there 
was  strength  in  her  spirit,  decision  in  her  heart.  She 
would  not  see  him,  and  she  did  not.  Resisting  aU  Lady 
St.  Maur's  persuasions,  even  her  reproaches,  and  several 
messages  from  the  Earl,  she  remained  that  evening  in  her 
jwn  room. 

I>ut  her  trial  was  not  over.  The  following  morning  a 
messar;e  was  brought  her  that  Mr.  Howard  was  in  the 
library,  and  wished  particularly  to  see  her,  but  that  he 
would  not  detain  her  long.  A.  sickness  so  deadly  crept 
over  Florence,  that  the  effort  either  to  speak  or  rise 
seemed  for  the  moment  impossible  ;  but  after  a  few  minutes 
the  prayer  o"  the  evening  rose  in  her  heart,  and  seemed 
to  give  it  strength.  She  descended  the  staircase,  and  en- 
tered the  library  ;  cheek,  lip,  and  brow,  vied  with  the 
marble  in  their  whiteness,  yet  not  a  limb  trembled,  not  a 
quiver  in  the  voice  with  wliich  she  calmly  bade  him 
good  morning,  as  she  entered,  betrayed  what  was  passing 
within. 

Howard  was  in  appearance  the  much  more  agitated  of 


224  woman's     FRlENDSIIir. 

the  two.  He  tried  to  say  something  indifferent,  but  it 
would  not  do,  and  he  plunged  at  once  into  the  Bubjeck 
which  had  brought  him  there. 

"I  thought,"  he  said,  hurriedly,  "that  I  could  hav% 
waited  calmly  the  answer  which  I  requested,  but  I  ovei- 
rated  my  own  powers.  Lady  St.  Maur  spoke  of  indis- 
position as  confining  you  to  your  chamber  last  night,  yet 
seemed  to  think  inclination  more  than  indisposition  was 
the  cause.  That  should  have  been  enough,  but  I  couid 
not  feel  it  so,  and  I  came  to  hear  my  doom  from  your  own 
lips,  to  conjure  you  to  tell  me  that  you  will  at  least  acquii 
me  of  that  mean  and  petty  interestedness  which  may  wp- 
fear  to  mark  my  conduct.  Speak  to  me,  Miss  Leshe  ;  tell 
me,  in  mercy,  that  of  this  at  least  you  believe  my  motives 
free.  Presumptuous  I  may  be,  but  interested  !  seeking 
worth  only  when  set  in  gold  I"  He  spoke  passionately, 
hurrying  on  as  if  he  dreaded  the  answer.  At  length  it 
came. 

"  Believe  me,"  she  said  earnestly,  "  that  no  thought  of 
such  unworthiness  could  enter  my  mind,  as  coupled  with 
one  true,  kind,  honorable  as  yourself.  I  grieve  that  my 
manner  should  have  caused  you  to  feel  one  moment's 
suffering  from  a  thought  so  groundless.  Perhaps  it  is 
better  that  we  have  thus  met,  clearly  to  understand  each 
other.  Though  wishing  to  spare  myself  the  pain  of  ap- 
parent coldness  to  one  I  esteem  so  highly,  (her  voice 
faltered),  I  refused  last  night  to  meet  you,  trusting  that 
absence  and  silence  would  speak  for  me." 

"  Then  why,  if  on  this  point  you  so  generously  and 
justly  acquit  me,  oh !  why,  has  your  maimer  so  changed 
towards  me  ?  Once  I  dared  to  hope  that  the  regard  I 
felt  was  not  wholly  unreturned,  and  that  you  looked  on  me 
with  a  preference  to  some  others  around  you.  Miss  Leslie 
— Florence,  dearest  Florence  !  what  have  I  done  to  change 
that  feeling,  or  was  I  indeed  too  presumptuous,  believing 
that  which  never  was  ?" 

"  Pardon  me,  Mr.  Howard,  but  perhaps  had  there  been 
no  change  in  your  manner,  mine  would  still  have  been  the 
same.  As  a  friend,  whose  every  act  and  word  towards  me 
was  dictated  and  offered  by  the  most  heart- felt  kindness 
could  I  feel  other  than  regard,  esteem,  as  much  above  that 


WOMAN'S    FRIENDSHIP.  225 

which  I  gave  to  others,  as  your  high  character  was  supe- 
rior to  theirs  ?  Your  manner  changed,  speaking,  as  it 
Beemed,  of  other  feehngs  than  those  which  had  at  first 
actuated  you.  Should  I  have  been  right  to  encourage 
those  feehngs  when  I  knew  that  I  might  give  you  nothmg 
in  return,  except  the  sincere  regard  and  high  esteem  which, 
I  trust,  under  all  circumstances,  I  may  be  permitted  to 
retam  !" 

"And  with  his  high  esteem,  Miss  LesUe,  have  you, 
can  you  give  me  nothing  more  ?  Must  I  teach  my  heart 
to  forego  all  its  hopes  of  happiness,  all  those  bUsshil  do- 
mestic feelings  of  which,  till  I  knew  you,  I  was  uncon- 
scious ?  May  I  not  look  to  time  to  gain  me  that  blessing 
which  I  crave  ;  to  turn  those  cold  Avords  '  regard,  esteem.' 
to  some  kinder  feeling  ?  Oh,  do  not  condemn  me  at  once 
to  disappointment !     Give  me  at  least  hope  I" 

He  spoke  Avith  emotion,  and  his  was  a  voice,  when  in 
persuasion,  difficult  to  resist  ;  but  now  it  was  resisted, 
and  by  one  whose  sinking  heart  and  fragile  frame  seemed 
Scarcely  able  to  support  her  many  minutes  longer. 

"Mr.  Howard,"  she  said  distinctly  and  slowly,  "you 
must  not  hope  this.  I  should  be  guilty  of  deceit,  should 
I  bid  you  encourage  feelings  to  which  I  may  never  give 
return.  I  am  grateful,  most  deeply  grateful  for  the  high 
regard  you  must  feel  towards  me,  to  select  me  from  others 
Bo  much  more  worthy.  Let  me  retain  a  portion  of  that 
regard,  even  while  I  beseech  you  to  conquer  every  feeling 
towards  me,  which  can  only  create  distress.  Let  us  be 
friends  as  we  have  been,  Mr.  Howard  ;  indeed,  indeed  it  is 
better  for  us  both,  to  be — to  feel  no  more." 

Frank  Howard  looked  at  her  with  wondering  admira- 
tion;  a  strange  feeling  for  a  rejected  man.  Yet  if  truth 
must  be  spoken,  he  could  not  understand  himself  If, 
indeed,  he  was  under  the  influence  of  passionate  love,  a-g 
he  fancied,  how  came  it  that  disappointment,  that  unplea- 
sant lowering  of  self-esteem  generally  attendant  on  re- 
jection, did  not  so  oppress  him,  as  to  banish  all  feeling 
save  for  himself?  It  seemed  as  if  the  very  respect  he  felt 
for  Florence  restrained  all  inclination  to  urge  his  suit.  Y^'et 
these  were  incomprehensible  emotions  to  a  man  who  felt 
that  all  his  hopes  were  at  an  end  ;  he  tried  to  define  them# 


226  woman's    FRIENDSH.r. 

Dut  felt  it  was  impossible.  He  lingered,  gazing  on  hei 
Badly  and  silently,  for  several  minutes  ;  then  raising  hel 
hand  to  his  lips,  pressed  it  strongly  between  both  his  owu, 
and  said  fervently — 

"  God  bless  you,  Florence ;  you  have  spoken  kindly, 
openly,  like  yourself.  I  will  conquer,  if  I  can,  all  that 
can  throw  a  barrier  between  our  continued  intimacy.  Let 
us  be  friends,  as  you  say,  and  grant  me  this  one  proof  of 
your  regard.  Should  you  ever  need  a  faithful  friend — a 
brother — let  me  be  that  one,  trust  me  without  scruple,  for 
no  personal  disappointment,  no  individual  feelings  shall  ever 
interfere  to  check  my  interest  m  your  welfare.  Once  more, 
Jod  bless  you  I" 

He  was  gone  ere  she  could  reply,  and  Florence  was 
alone.  She  made  no  effort  to  recall  him,  but  her  intense 
gaze  remamed  fixed  on  the  door  through  which  he  passed. 
She  was  not  conscious  of  the  wild,  agonized  torrent  of 
thought  iTishing  over  heart  and  brain,  save  that  it  felt  like 
waves  of  molten  fire  ;  and  then  there  came  a  low  gasping 
cry,  and  her  burning  forehead  drooped  on  her  pale  hands, 
her  whole  frame  shook  as  if  with  conviilsion.  Time  passed, 
but  Florence  knew  it  not ;  all  outward  emotion  had  given 
way  to  a  stillness  as  of  death  ;  her  very  figure  seemed  con- 
tracted with  the  soul's  agony.  A  voice  at  length  aroused 
her  ;  and  though  it  was  colder,  severer  far  th^n  its  wont, 
it  recalled  her  scattered  senses,  and  as  Lady  St.  Maur  pro- 
nounced her  name,  she  looked  up. 

"Florence,  what  is  the  meaning  of  all  this  ?"  she  said 
impatiently.  "  What  can  have  made  you  act  as  you  have 
done  ?  You  know  of  all  things,  I  abhor  mystery  and 
caprice.  You  have  told  me,  or  rather  your  general  actions 
have,  that  you  consider  me  as  your  friend  ;  prove  that 
you  do  so  now,  and  tell  me  the  reason  of  this  extraordinary 
decision." 

Florence  endeavored  to  obey,  but  though  her  hps  moved, 
no  sound  came  from  them.  Lady  St.  Maur  was  touched  in 
the  midst  of  her  unwonted  impatience,  and  sitting  down  by 
her,  she  said  more  kindly — 

*'  Now  do  be  the  same  candid  ingenuous  Florence  you 
have  always  been.  You  know  all  I  mean,  for  there  ia 
only  one  subjact  on  which  you  can  feel  guilty  of  a  proper 


woman' g   FRIENl  SHIP.  227 

want  of  candor.  Make  up  for  it  now,  and  tell  me  why 
you  have  chosen  misery,  when  happiness  was  offered  to 
you.  Frank  has  just  been  to  bid  me  farewell,  intending 
to  join  Lord  Edgemere's  family  in  Scotland,  instead  of 
telling  me  that  you  and  he  were  two  of  the  happiest  people 
in  the  world,  I  have  wrung  the  truth  from  him,  that  you 
have  refused  to  accept  his  love,  on  plea  that  you  have 
none  to  give  in  return,  nothing  but  cold  regard.  Florence, 
[  never  read  woman's  countenance  rightly,  if  you  have  not 
told  him  falsely  I" 

A  cry  of  intense  though  smothered  anguish  burst  from 
poor  Florence,  and  she  bowed  her  head  on  her  clasped 
hands,  as  if  she  shrunk  from  suffering  from  the  Countess's 
searching  look.  Lady  St.  Maur  gazed  at  her  with  m- 
creased  astonishment. 

"  What  is  this  dreadful  mystery,  Florence  ?  for  dread- 
ful it  must  be  to  occasion  this  decision,  and  your  over- 
whelming wretchedness.  I  will  not  believe  that  ycu  have 
grown  so  suddenly  ambitious  as  to  reject  one  like  Frank, 
because  you  do  not  think  him  good  enough  for  your  present 
prospects." 

"  No,  no,  no,"  grasped  Florence,  the  effort  to  speak 
causing  her  very  brain  to  reel ;  "  Believe  any  thing,  every 
thing  but  that !  I  am  not  worthy  of  him,  not  fit  to  be  his 
wife,  when  not  the  very  lowest  would  wed  with  me." 

"  Florence  I"  exclaimed  the  Countess  ;  "  you  cannot 
know  what  you  say.  Not  worthy,  not  fit  ?  When  de- 
pendent and  portionless,  your  pride  might  have  suggested 
this,  but  not  now.  Even  then  it  would  have  been  absurd, 
but  now  it  is  incomprehensible,  quite  unlike  yourself.  I 
am  certain  that  you  love  him.  You  neither  can,  nor  dare 
deny  it." 

"It  is  because  of  this ;  because  I  love  him,  that  I 
would  not  link  his  fate  with  mine.  I  care  not  for  myself; 
it  seems  easy  to  die  ;  but  for  him, — ^no,  no  !  I  love  him  all 
too  well." 

"  Will  you  gratify  me  by  speaking  comprehensibly,  my 
dear  Florence  ?  because  you  certainly  do  mystify  me  more 
and  more.  If  you  wish  me  to  retain  my  good  opinion  of 
you,  and  desire  our  mutual  confidence  to  continue,  speak 
out.     I   cannot   continue  regard   towards   one   who,    pro- 


228  woman's    FRIENDSlIlr 

fessiiig   friendship,    fails  in   its  most   impoitant   dulies — 
sincerity  and  confidence." 

Lady  St.  Maur's  temper  and  patience  very  seldom 
failed  her,  except  in  cases  like  this.  She  could  not  feel 
for  Florence,  because  the  real  truth  was  so  completely 
unsuspected,  that  she  could  not  frame  any  reason  for 
Florence's  mysterious  conduct,  and  still  more  mysterious 
words.  It  appeared  to  her  that  she  had  chosen  misery 
instead  of  happiness,  for  some  very  unfounded  cause, 
some  fancied  injury  to  her  proper  pride  by  Frank's  holding 
back  so  long,  that  she  had  worked  herself  into  the  idea  of 
a  necessity  for  self-sacrifice,  to  which  the  Countess  fancied 
her  exceedingly  prone,  and  was  now  suffering  the  conse- 
quences of  her  own  delusion.  Florence  withdrew  her 
hands  from  her  brow,  and  looked  up  in  Lady  St.  Maur's 
face. 

"  Cannot  continue  regard  without  sincerity  and  con 
fidence,"  she  murmured,  more  to  herself  than  to  the 
Countess.  "  I  did  not  dream  of  this.  But  perhaps  it  is 
better  ;  I  have  no  right  to  conceal  the  truth  from  her,  but 
yet,  to  lose  all  at  once — love — friendship,  to  find  myself 
an  object  of  scorn,  instead  of  love,  oh!  how  may  I  bear 
it  ?"  and  again  a  strong  convulsion  bowed  her  frame. 

Some  sudden  revulsion  of  thought  brought  before  Lady 
St.  Maur,  at  that  moment,  several  trifling  circumstances, 
unnoticed  at  the  time,  which  now  congregated  to  convince 
her  as  with  a  flash  of  intelligence,  that  there  was  more 
real  meaning  in  Florence's  wild  words  and  agonized 
manner  than  her  first  irritation  had  supposed.  In  an 
instant  she  remembered  also  that  all  this  had  been  since 
Mrs.  Leshe's  death,  and  Florence  had,  in  fact,  been  unhke 
herself  ever  since.  "What  the  mystery  could  be,  in  truth, 
she  guessed  not ;  but  her  words  rushed  back  upon  her 
as  cruel  ar.d  unjust,  and  throwing  her  arm  caressingly 
round  the  unhappy  girl,  she  drew  her  closer  to  her,  saying 
in  her  own  natural  voice — 

"  Forgive  me,  my  own  Florence,  I  have  been  very 
cruel,  feeling  more  for  Frank  than  for  you.  Even  if  I 
think  you  wrong,  or  at  least  unwise  to  continue  this 
strange  mystery,  I  have  not  tried  the  kindest  way  to  solva 
it.     Will  you  forgive  me,  and  trust  me  too?     It  must  btf 


woman's     FEIENDSniP.  229 

some  terrible  secret  to  move  you  thus,"  she  continued, 
Decoming  really  alarmed,  as  the  sofa  actually  shook  beneath 
Florence's  tearless  sols.  "  Yet  give  it  words,  dearest ;  do 
not  let  it  lie  on  your  heart  and  break  it.  You  can  have 
nothing  to  tell  which  will  change  my  love.  Sorrow  and 
evil  are  always  magnified  unless  revealed.  Come,  tell  me 
this  weighty  grief,  my  Florence,  and  try  if  I  have  not 
power  to  dissolve  it  into  air." 

"  No,  no,  not  this  I  no  one  on  earth  can  remedy  this  1" 
she  wildly  reiterated,  starting  from  Lady  St.  Maur's 
detaining  hold,  and  standing  erect  before  her.  "  Fit  wife 
for  him  whose  own  lips  vowed  that  he  would  i  ather  bear 
the  anguish  of  unconquered  love,  than  wed  wdth  infamy  ; 
that  his  wife  must  have  no  stain,  no,  not  even  a  mother's  ! 
and  knowing  this,  might  I  wed  him,  when  the  truth 
seemed  revealed  but  to  save  him  from  misery.  No,  no,  I 
have  prayed  to  die  ere  the  words  were  spoken  ;  but  I  live, 
breathe,  feel  still,  and  they  must  be  said.  Fit  wife  for 
him  !  I,  who  have  no  name,  no  rank  ;  who  know  not 
what  I  am,  save  that  I  am  not  Florence  Leslie  !  Not 
Mary  Leslie's  child  !  Naught — naught — but  a  child 
of_of— " 

Sense,  motion,  strength,  all  failed  with  the  convulsive 
effort,  and  she  fell  forward  powerless  at  Lady  St.  Maur's 
feet 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

DESPAIR. — THE    FRIEND    TRUSTED. 

When  Florence  recovered,  she  found  herself  laid  on 
her  own  bed,  partially  undressed  ;  Alice  holding  some 
strong  essence  which  had  evidently  been  used,  and  the 
Countess  plentifully  bathing  her  temples  and  hands  with 
cold  water.  For  nearly  a  quarter  of  an  hour  Florence 
seemed  hovering  between  sense  and  unconsciousness, 
aware  that  Lady  St.  Maur  and  Alice  were  near  her,  but 
unable  to  define  the  cause  of  her  sudden  illness.  She  had 
often  fainted  before,  but  it  seemed  to  her  never  so  pain* 

20 


230  woman's   friendship. 

iilly  as  then  ;  and  the  difliculty  to  regain  sense,  power, 
and  thought,  never  Avas  so  overwhelming.  Her  head  felt 
as  if  bound  to  the  pillow  by  weights  of  lead  ;  with  an 
incessant  throb,  and  burning  of  the  temples,  accompanied 
by  sharp  pain.  Still  the  ifnind  would  work  ;  the  eflbrts 
to  think  never  relaxed  ;  and  amidst  the  dark,  formless 
mist  which  enveloped  her  brain,  there  felt  one  indefinable 
but  unconquerable  sense  of  pain.  Her  eyes  closed  upon 
the  light,  as  if  it  wrung  the  mind  to  deeper  torture,  till 
Lady  St.  Maur  bending  over,  said  in  accents  of  the  deepest 
feeling — 

"  My  poor  girl,  my  own  Florence,  do  you  not  know  me  ? 
Will  you  not  speak  to  me  ?" 

The  voice  recalled  her  terribly  to  life,  and  all — ail 
which  had  passed  ;  the  cause  of  that  faintness,  the  misery 
which  was  not  alone  upon  her  now,  but  hemmed  her  in  as 
by  a  wall,  whence  there  was  no  escaping,  no  retreat.  Her 
eyes  opened,  and  her  lips  moved  ;  but  only  a  strong  con- 
vulsion contracted  her  features.  The  Countess  made  a 
sign  to  Alice  to  leave  them,  and  Florence  seemed  partially 
relieved  by  her  departure,  but  still  she  did  not  speak  ;  it 
was  only  the  despairing,  yet  imploring  gaze,  which  be- 
trayed thought  had  regained  its  sway.  For  several 
minutes  Lady  St.  Maur  felt  as  if  she  could  not  address 
her.  Every  usual  suggestion  of  comfort  seemed  irrelevant 
to  grief  such  as  this.  She  could  only  press  her  lips  caress- 
ingly on  her  burning  brow,  and  chafe  her  hands  within 
both  her  own. 

"  Florence  !  dearest  Florence  !  Do  not  look  upon  me 
thus,"  she  said  at  length,  her  own  tears  falling  fast  as  she 
spoke.  "  Speak  to  me ;  surely  there  must  be  some  mis- 
tak*?;  and  you  are  laboring  under  some  strange  delusion. 
What  foundation,  what  proof  can  you  have,  after  so  muny 
years?" 

"  It  is  truth,"  murmured  Florence,  and  though  her 
voice  was  hollow  it  was  perfectly  distinct ;  "a  mother's 
dying  words,  a  mother's  dying  hand  affirmed  it.  A  mother  ; 
oh,  God  !  she  was  not  my  mother  I  I  was  not  so 
blessed." 

"  She  was  your  mother  in  affection — in  all  which  makes 
that  precious  tie,  my  Florence  !     Do  not  add  to  the  agony 


woman's     FRIENDSIIir.  231 

of  this  moment  by  darker  tliouglits  than  need  be.  Think 
how  she  loved,  cherished  you." 

"  Would — would  that  she  had  not  thus  loved  me,  but  left 
me  to  die  with  her  who  gave  me  birth,  I  had  been  spared 
tills  moment  I"  wildly  and  despairingly  burst  from  Florence's 
parched  lips. 

"  Do  not  say  so,  my  sweet  girl ;  it  is  wrong,  it  is  sinful, 
even  m  agony  such  as  this,  to  give  way  to  despair. 
Think  on  the  blessing  you  have  been — aye,  and  may 
still  be." 

"  Still  be  !"  reiterated  Florence.  "  to  whom  ?  Who  is 
there  will  love  me — associate  with  me,  now  ?  An  c.utcast, 
abandoned  ;  with  a  stain  that  who  can  bear  ?" 

"I  will,  replied  the  Countess,  frankly  and  unhesi- 
tatinlgy.  **  Florence  I  can  you  think  this  unlooked-foi 
misfortune  is  to  throw  a  barrier  between  you  and  me  ?  It 
shall  not,  even  if  all  must  be  proclaimed.  But  can  there 
be  any  cause  for  you  to  abandon  a  name  which  you  have 
go  long  and  nobly  borne  ?  You  are  not  well  enough  to 
tell  me  all,  or  I  would  entreat  you  to  confide  in  my  friend- 
ship, and  let  me  think  for  you." 

"I  will — I  will,  if  I  can;  but,  oh  I  forgive  me,"  she 
exclaimed,  half  rising  and  clasping  Lady  St.  Maur's  arm 
with  passionate  eagerness,  "  check  me,  stop  me,  if  I  say 
aught  madly  ;  I  do  not  mean  it.  I  would  not  say  it ;  but 
there  have  been  times  when  I  felt  as  if  I  were  going  mad 
— and  now  it  is  stronger  than  ever  !"  and  she  sunk  back 
almost  exhausted  ;  but,  after  a  few  minutes,  faintly  re- 
sumed : — 

"  In  the  private  drawer  of  my  desk  is  the  M.  S.  Read 
it ;  do  what  you  will.     But,  oh  I  do  not  let  it" 

"Hush,  dearest  I  I  will  not  hear  such  words.  Your 
confidence,  indeed,  I  accept ;  and,  trust  me,  it  shall  not  be 
misplaced.  But  my  husband" — she  paused,  evidently 
sinxious,  and  Florence  became  again  fearfully  agitated. 

"Yes — yes,  it  must  be  ;  I  will  not  burden  you  with  any 
thing  that  must  be  kept  from  him.  Tell  him  all  you  will. 
t  will  risk  even  the  agony  of  being  forbidden  to  associate 
with  you  ;  for  I  know  he  will  not  think  as  you  do." 

"  I  know  liim  better,  Florence.  Try  and  banish  such 
isciserable  thoughts.     For  my  sake,  for  Minie's,  endeavoi 


232  woman's    FRIENDSIIir. 

to  be  calm  ;  to  hope  that  all  may  not  be  as  wretched  as  i; 
seems.  I  know  that  at  this  moment  all  I  say  seems  vain 
worse  than  vain,  almost  cruel ;  but,  oh  !  trust  to  a  God  of 
love,  my  Florence  I     You  shall  be  haj^py  yet." 

"  Happy  !"  repeated  poor  Florence,  with  an  irrepressible 
shudder.  "  Not  in  this  v/orld.  God  forgive  me,  and 
bless  you  for  all  you  would  do!  aye,  and  for  all  you 
feel !  If  I  am  ill,  if  I  cannot  texl  you  then,  do  not  let 
Minie  know  ;  keep  it  from  her.  Let  her  still  believe  me 
the  sister  she  has  so  long  loved.  I  cannot  break  every  link 
at  once." 

Her  voice  became  fainter,  and  ntter  exhaustion  followed. 
Lady  St.  Maur  promised  all.  But  vainly  Florence  struggled 
to  be  calm.  Agony  such  as  hers  mocks  at  will,  and  hour 
after  hour  of  that  dreadful  day  passed,  leaving  her  with 
alternate  fever  and  exhaustion. 

Eveiy  precaution  was  taken,  but  before  night  Lady  St. 
Maur  watched  over  her,  as  she  struggled  in  all  the  parox- 
ysms of  delirium. 

The  Earl  and  Countess  had  been  engaged  that  day 
both  for  dinner  and  the  evening.  No  one  enjoyed  such 
things  more,  when  happiness  was  around  her,  for  there 
was  that  in  her  own  noble  heart  and  happy  temper  which 
reflected  itself  on  all  around,  and  ever  enabled  her  to  cull 
flowers  when  others  saw  but  weeds.  But  when  aught  of 
suffering  appealed  to  her  for  sympathy,  scenes  of  revelry 
were  relmquished,  not  only  without  a  sigh,  but  simply  be- 
cause she  could  not  join  them.  This  day  finding  it  even 
more  than  usually  impossible,  she  succeeded  in  persuading 
her  husband  to  go  without  her ;  entreating  him  to  wait  the 
solution  of  Florence's  sudden  illness  and  its  effect  on  her 
till  he  returned. 

Finding  that  Florence  had  sunk  into  the  heavy  slumber 
of  a  powerful  opiate,  aiid  that  even  when  awake  she 
could  do  nothmg  for  her — for  the  poor  girl  was  now  un- 
conscious of  her  presence — Lady  St.  Maur  left  her  to  the 
united  care  of  Alice  and  Ferrers,  and  retreated  with  the 
important  manuscripts  to  her  own  boudoir.  It  was  near 
midnight,  but  she  had  determined  not  to  retire  to  rest  till 
\icr  husband's  return,  and  took  advantage  of  that  hour  of 
quiet  to  become  acquainted  with  the.  real  cause  of  Flo- 


woman's  friendship.  233 

rcnee's  dc8p  agony,  still  hoping  that  all  was  not  so  dark 
as  it  seemed.  At  first  she  had  felt  half  indignant  at  the 
long  concealment  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Leslie  ;  but  the 
feelmg  did  not  last.  She  could  well  understand  how, 
loving  her  as  she  did,  she  should  shrink  in  anguish  from 
inflicting  a  shock  so  terrible.  But  why  then  reveal  it  at 
all  ?  It  surely  could  not  be  needed,  and  she  thought  the 
act  of  doing  so  misguided  and  cruel.  Many  things  in 
Florence,  since  her  mother's  death,  returned  to  her  mind, 
and  Lady  St.  Maur  felt  that  while  she  had  that  terrible 
secret  to  conceal  she  might  bear  up  ;  but  once  revealed, 
she  should  sink  powerless  beneath  it.  And  Frank 
Howard  too  I  Lady  St.  Maur  actually  shuddered  as  she 
pictured  the  interview  between  them.  Yet  she  could  not 
blame  the  sacrifice  ;  she  should  not  believe  it  under  the 
circumstances  uncalled  for.  Howard's  sentiments  had 
been  too  lately,  too  powerfully  expressed  to  admit  a  doubt 
as  to  his  course  of  acting,  if  the  truth  were  known  ;  and 
as  such  it  was  far  better  that  Florence's  ill-fated  love 
should  never  be  revealed.  But  Florence  !  even  if  she  had 
only  this  with  which  to  contend,  what  misery  must  be  her 
portion ;  and,  oh  !  how  nobly,  how  admirably,  she  had 
acted  up  to  the  promise  of  her  girlhood  I  The  happiness 
of  those  she  loved  was  dearer  than  her  own. 

It  was  with  tearful  eyes  the  Countess  took  up  the 
manuscript.  The  hand  had  evidently  trembled  in  its  task  , 
for  here  and  there  words  were  illegible,  but  as  a  whole, 
the  sense  was  clear  and  continued.  The  mind  of  the 
writer  had  evidently  never  failed.  We  might  give  a 
brief  sketch  of  the  contents,  but  our  readers  may  bettei 
enter  into  Florence's  feelings  by  following  Mrs.  Leslie'? 
words. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

UTRS.  Leslie's  manuscript. — the  biystery  solved. 

"  Florence,  my  beloved  one  !"  so  that  important  lettei 
began — "  I  know  not  when,  or  indeed,  if  ever,  your  eyes 
will  rest  upon  these  words  ;    yet  there  is  that  upon  mv 

20* 


234 

neart  urging,  impelling,  nay,  commanding  me  to  write 
that  secret  Avhich  has  dwelt  with  me,  for  nearly  three  and 
twenty  years,  sternly  forbidding  me  to  bear  it  with  me, 
as  my  love  would  dictate,  to  the  grave.  I  have  sought  to 
disobey  that  inward  voice  ;  but  it  haunts  me  still,  like 
tones  from  another  world,  and  as  if  sin,  and  suffering, 
and  horror  would  rest  on  its  disobedience.  I  must  obey. 
I  have  prayed  that  our  God  would,  in  his  great  mercy 
keep  this  dread  secret  unrevealed,  unless  its  concealment 
threatened  deeper  agony  than  its  betrayal ;  and  still,  oh 
«till,  he  may  grant  my  prayer  I  I  will  write  the  truth  ;  and 
if  His  wisdom  bids  it  be  revealed,  Florence,  my  child, 
DeUeve  He  wills  it  for  some  secret,  yet  important  good,  to 
spare  yet  deeper  woe.  But  I  must  be  calm.  I  thought 
to  have  conquered  all  of  earth,  to  have  buried  its  wild, 
passionate  yearnings  in  my  "Walter's  grave  ;  but  when  I 
think  of  you,  my  Florence,  I  know  that  feeling  is  uncon- 
quered  still.  The  years  of  devoted  love  you  have  lav- 
ished on  me,  and  on  my  children,  the  lisping  endearments 
of  infancy,  the  willing  obedience,  the  fond  affection  of  your 
youth,  the  blessings  you  lavished  upon  our  home  in  the 
hours  of  trial — when  I  recall  these  things,  Florence, 
what  right  have  I  to  break  the  sweet  delusion  Mhich  I 
myself  have  fostered  in  your  heart  ?  How  dare  I  breathe 
one  word,  which  would  whisper  that  no  tie  of  nature  bound 
us  ?  God  of  mercy,  spare  me  this  I  I  cannot,  cannot  inflict 
such  misery  on  my  child  ! 


*'I  was  very  ill  after  writing  the  above,  my  Florence  ; 
and  it  seemed  as  if,  mdeed,  this  dreaded  trial  would  l/e 
spared  me  ;  but  once  more  I  have  rallied,  and  again  I 
hear  that  spiritual  voice  urging  me  on.  Let  me  \^Tite 
then,  ere  strength  and  calmness  again  fail.  You  know  I 
was  very  young  when  I  lost  my  mother  ;  my  father  then 
placed  me  at  school,  tlxinking  he  better  insured  my 
2orAfort  and  happiness  than  his  taking  me  with  him 
abroad.  I  never  saw  him  again  for  five  years  afterwards  ; 
he  died  abroad.  A  distant  relation,  but  our  only  family 
connexjtiou,  who  had  been  with  him  in  his  last  moments, 


woman's  fTwIendship.  235 

came  to  England  and  took  me  to  live  with  her,  making 
no  difTerence  between  me  and  her  own  child.  From  that 
hour  I  should  have  been  perfectly  happy,  had  not  my 
friend  had  griefs  and  trials,  which  I  could  not  witness 
without  sympathy.  She  was  an  English  woman  by 
descent,  but  Itahan  by  birth,  and  had  also  married  an 
Italian,  and  had  lived  the  greater  portion  of  her  life  in 
[taly,  long  enough  to  regaj'd  it,  indeed,  as  her  own 
sountry,  more  particularly  as  it  had  been  the  birth-place 
of  her  only  child — a  daughter,  and  the  scene  of  an  un- 
usually happy  wedded  life.  It  would  be  a  long  and  te- 
dious task,  my  Florence,  to  dilate  on  all  she  did  for 
me ;  suffice  it  that  she  bound  me  to  her  with  such  strong 
ties  of  veneration,  gratitude,  and  love,  that  I  felt  as  if 
even  the  devotion  of  a  life  could  never  adequately  repay 
her.  For  her  I  felt  I  could  do  little,  but  I  made  a 
secret  and  solermi  promise,  that  to  her  daughter  I  would 
endeavor  to  return,  in  part  all  I  owed  herself;  and  this 
seemed  an  easy  task ;  for  Madeleine,  in  spite  of  faults 
which  wrung  her  mother's  heart  with  foreboding  misery, 
was,  in  truth,  one  to  cherish  and  caress,  to  feel  that  her 
very  failings  excited  no  common  love.  She  was  my 
senior  by  two  years ;  endowed  with  a  vivacity,  an  intelli- 
gence, and  beauty,  that  would  have  made  me  feel  almost 
painfully  her  inferior,  had  she  not  loved  me  as  fondly  as  I 
loved  her — nay,  she  would  listen  to  my  representation : 
my  influence  would  often  lead  her  repentant  and  sorrow- 
ing to  her  mother's  neck,  when  all  the  good  advice  of 
our  worthy  governess  had  been  without  effect.  Essen 
tially  ItaUan,  a  very  child  of  impulse,  she  could  not  be 
indifferent — she  either  loved  or  hated.  Few  could  under- 
stand her,  eyen  amongst  those  she  would  have  loved  ;  and 
therefore  was  she  contmually  disappointed,  continually 
mortified,  till  haughtiness  and  pride  at  length  kept  her 
aloof  from  all,  except  ourselves.  Lovely  she  was,  but  it 
was  not  the  loveliness  of  our  more  northern  clime.  The 
large,  dark,  soul-beaming  eye — the  clear,  olive  com- 
plexion— the  luxuriant  tresses  of  raven  hair — the  lip,  so 
full  of  sentiment  and  love,  that  even  when  her  eyes  were 
closed,    the    face    retamed   its   exquisite   expression — such 


236  woman's   friendship. 

she  was,  iii  feature  as  in  character,  a  daughter  of  that  land 
in  which  the  blood  cannot  flow  as  calmly  as  in  less  sunny 
shores. 

"  Florence,  my  child,  is  there  none  to  whom  these 
traits  of  feature  (not  of  character)  seem  applicable,  even 
as  to  Madeleine  ?  Know  you  of  none  whom  they  might, 
with  equal  force  describe  ?  Alas  I  my  child,  my  pen  still 
shrinks  Irom  its  task,  and  lingers  on  these  minute  particu- 
lars, as  if  it  would  not  pass  to  those  so  much  more  im- 
portant to  us  both. 


"  "VMien  Madeleine  was  about  nineteen,  some  ajSairs 
respecting  her  late  husband's  Italian  property  recalled 
Madame  Montoni  to  Italy.  I  was  of  course  to  accompany 
them ;  but  my  quiet  tastes  were  peculiarly  English,  and 
I  shrunk  almost  in  pain  from  residing  in  other  lands.  Not 
so  Madeleine.  Though  only  thirteen  at  the  period  of  her 
quitting  Italy,  her  love  for  her  native  land  amounted  almost 
to  a  passion.  She  was  never  weary  of  expatiating  on  its 
varied  charms,  alike  of  nature  and  of  art — the  warm 
feelings  of  its  inhabitants,  the  glow  of  poetry  and  love, 
which  (girl  as  she  was)  she  described  as  existing  there  in 
contradistinction  to  what  she  termed  the  coldness,  the 
worldliness,  the  heartlessness  of  England.  I  could  not 
understand  the  wild  flights  of  her  vivid  imagination,  but 
my  own  quieter  love  for  my  English  home  enabled  me 
to  bear  with  her,  anl  give  her  the  sympathy  she  craved. 
"With  these  associations,  loving  her  and  her  angel  mother 
as  I  did,  do  you  wonder  any  longer,  my  beloved  child,  a"^, 
the  sadness  which  your  passionate  longings  to  look  on 
Italy  once  occasioned  ?  Alas  !  I  know  it  was  nature  that 
spoke,  and  I  have  looked  upon  you,  at  such  times,  till  the 
agony  of  recollection  seemed  too  heavy  to  be  borne. 

"  We  went  to  Italy.  The  Montoni  estates  lay  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Rome,  and  that  city  alternately  with 
Florence  became  our  residence.  Madeleine  had  not  been 
introduced  in  England,  but  now  entered  with  avidity  into 
the  delights  of  society,  which  was,  mdeed,  fascinating, 
including  all  the  highest  Itahan  famihes,  with  many 
English  visitants  of  first-rate  ranli  and  talent.     It  was  at 


woman's  friendship.  237 

this  time  tliat  Madame  Montoni's   anxieties  for  Madeleine 
redoubled.      Surrounded   by    adulation  and   gallantry,  by 
all  that  has  power  to  shake  even  the  steadiest — and  she 
loved  these  things — she  laughed  at  her  mother's  fears,  de- 
claring that  not    one    of   those    whose    devotion  she  per- 
niitted — nay,  enjoyed — had  power    over    her    heart — that 
the  pleasures  of  her  present  life  were  far  too  agreeable,  to 
permit  a  thought  of  her  changing  them    for    the    quieter 
enjoyments  of  a  wife.     In  vain  her  mother   remonstrated 
that  she  was  acting  wrongfully,  cruelly,  in  permitting,  as 
she  did,   the  attentions    of   one   for  a  time,   and  then  re- 
morselessly   forsaking    him    for    others    who    pleased    her 
more.     It  was  her  pleasure,  she    said,  and    could    do    no 
harm,  for  every  one  must  be  accustomed  to  her  now. .    I 
could  perceive  the   anxiety  bf  my  beloved  friend,  and  she 
made  me  the  confident  of  her  many  fears.     My  heart  w^as 
often  wrung  by  the  tears  I  have  seen  her   shed,  under  the 
painful  behef  that  her  child's  very  affection  for  and  con- 
fidence in  herself  were  lost  in  the  wild  turbulence  of  spirit 
which  these  exciting  pleasures  caused.     Her  impulse  was 
to   return  to   England  ;    but  affairs  of  importance  still  de- 
tained her  in  Italy,  and  Madeleine  had  petulantly  declared 
— and  we  knew  her  too  well  to  doubt  her — ^that,  rather 
than  return  to  England,  she  would  give  herself  away  to 
the  first  who  offered,  and  dare  all  the  miseries  of  an  union 
without  love.     Still  we  loved  her  ;  she  riveted  our  affec- 
tions   as    by  a  spell,  and    we    could    but  pray  that  true 
affection  might,  in  time,  be  excited,  and  tame  those  restless 
spirits,  and  that  love  of  universal  sway,  into  devotednesa 
to  one.     She  did  really  love  at  length,  and  madly,  passion- 
ately, as  was  her  nature.     It  was  strange,  with  her  avowed 
hatred  to  eveiy  thing  English,  that  it  should  have  been  by 
an  Englishman  that  all  the  deep,  fervid   feelings   of  her 
character  were  called  forth  !     But  Charles  Neville  possessed 
few  of  the  quiet  unpretending  marks  of  a  genuine   English 
gentleman.     Eminently  handsome,  fascinating  in  manner, 
and  combining  all  the  attractions  of  sohd   education  with 
elegant   accomplishments,  he  became  the  leading  star  of 
every  circle  at  the  capital,  obtainmg  with  neither  the  rank 
of  birth  nor  of  decided  talent,  the  suffrages  of  all. 

"Unlike  any  other  who  had  before  bowed  down  to  her^ 


238  woman's   friendship. 

Madeleine's  curiosity  was  first  excited  towards  the  stranger 
and  then  quick,  impetuous,  as  every  other  impulse,  th« 
rushing  torrent  of  her  love.  She  believed  it  returned, 
and  so  did  all  those  who  saw  them  together.  But  Madame 
Montoni  herself  was  not  aware  of  the  extent  of  Neville's 
admiration  and  devotion.  She  was  at  that  time  in  de- 
clining health,  and  Madeleine  joined  society  under  the  care 
of  a  female  friend.  I  was  also  to  have  been  introduced,  but 
I  preferred  remaining  with  my  benefactress — a  resolutioa 
she  permitted  the  more  willingly,  as  Edward  Leslie,  aftei* 
wards  my  beloved  husband,  was  almost  always  with  ub, 
and  our  affections  mutually  engaged. 

"  Madeleine  was  strangely  silent  at  home  upon  the  at- 
tractions of  her  new  admirer.  It  was  this  fact  which  fiist 
made  me  believe  she  really  loved  him,  and  I  tried  to 
obtain  her  confidence,  but,  for  the  first  time,  it  was  refused 
me.  *  You  cannot  understand  me,'  was  her  reiterated 
answer.  '  Your  feelings,  even  in  love,  are  all  too  calmly 
happy — too  unimpassioned,  for  the  comprehension  of 
mine.  Be  satisfied,  that  I  can  never  again  be  the  girl  T 
was.' 

**  I  imparted  my  thoughts  on  the  subject  to  my  friend  ; 
but  she  did  not  think  much  of  them,  believing  it  scarcely 
likely,  with  Madeleine's  peculiar  feehngs,  that  an  English- 
man would  eventually  be  her  choice. 

"  About  this  time,  I  know  not  how  they  first  arose, 
but  rumors  were  afloat  greatly  to  the  discredit  of  Mr. 
Neville  A.t  first  they  were  unlieeded  ;  his  influence,  his 
many  fascinations  retained  the  more  powerful  ascendency. 
But,  at  length,  reports  became  certainties ;  positive  proois 
were  collected  (at  least  so  it  was  alleged)  that  Charles 
Neville  wa&  not  his  real  name — that  he  had  been  traced 
through  many  of  the  Italian  cities  as  a  man  of  the  most 
dishonorable  practices — that  many  a  domestic  circle  had 
been  plunged  into  misery  by  his  means ;  with  other 
charges  equally  base,  and  perhaps  equally  unfounded , 
for,  terrible  as  were  the  consequences  of  his  introduction 
to  our  family,  we  have  learned  little  of  him  even  to  this 
day.  Several  of  Madame  Montoni's  confidential  friends 
informed  her  of  these  rumors ;  but  Madame  Montoni 
did   not  credit   all  she   heard.     She  knew  the  mah"nant 


woman's    FRIENDSIIir.  239 

influence  of  envy  towards  all  who  had  ever  been  made  the 
star  of  fashion ;  still  she  did  her  duty ;  she  refused  to 
permit  her  daughter  to  meet  or  associate  with  him,  unless 
he  came  forward  with  decided  proofs  of  innocence.  Never 
can  I  forget  poor  Madeleine's  look  when  this  command 
was  given ;  but  she  uttered  no  word  of  either  assent  or 
refusal.  I  saw  that  she  rejected,  without  the  smallest 
reservation,  all  the  reports  against  him ;  and  every  kindly 
feeling  towards  those  who  dared  to  mention  them  turned 
into  contempt  and  hate.  Once,  only,  I  ventured  to  speak 
on  the  subject,  but  she  silenced  me  at  once.  '  Mary,  if 
you  would  not  have  me  hate  and  despise  you,  as  I  do 
others,  breathe  not  this  fool's  tale.  I  could  better  doubt 
my  own  life  than  his  worth  and  honor.  Do  not  attempt 
to  read  my  heart ;  you  cannot.  I  would  love  you  still  ; 
then,  oh  I  do  not  you,  too,  seek  to  reason  with  me.'  And 
for  one  brief  minute  she  threw  herself  on  my  neck,  in  a 
convulsive  passion  of  tears ;  but  there  was  never  again 
any  visible  interruption  to  her  extraordinary  calmness : 
her  whole  character,  indeed,  was  changed.  From  being 
impetuous  and  self-willed,  even  in  trifles,  she  became  cold 
and  calm.  She  no  longer  sought  the  scenes  of  pleasure, 
once  enjoyed  with  so  much  avidity.  To  indiflerent  per- 
sons she  was  haughtier  than  ever  ;  to  her  mother  and  my- 
self more  softly  and  gently  aflectionate.  To  me  it  was  so 
evident  that  she  was  under  the  influence  of  some  one  over- 
whelming passion,  that  even  now  it  appears  strange  that  by 
her  mother  the  real  fact  was  unsuspected. 

"Neville  quitted  Rome;  at  least  so  it  was  supposed, 
fot  by  none  but  our  poor  Madeleine  was  he  ever  seen 
within  the  city  again,  and  soon  afterwards  Madame 
Montoni  removed  her  establishment  to  Florence.  We 
had  not  been  there  long  before  an  Italian  of  high  character, 
attracted  by  Madeleine's  surpassing  beauty,  paid  her  atten- 
tions too  marked  to  be  mistaken.  She  did  not  perhaps 
encourage,  but  certainly  did  not  repulse  him.  Her  poor 
mother  rejoiced,  but  I  could  only  feel  uneasy;  convinced 
that  Madeleine  still  loved  Neville,  I  feared — oh,  how  fore- 
bodingly I — that  her  present  conduct  was  but  a  veil, 
concealing  other  and  far  diflerent  resohitions.  After  a 
reasonable  time  the  Count  made  his  proposals  for  her  t» 


240  woman's   friendship. 

her  mother,  conjuring  her  to  plead  his  cause  :  she  did  so, 
and  Madeleine,  with  the  same  unfaltering-  composure  sig- 
nified her  acceptance,  throwing  an  impassable  barrier 
between  her  own  feelings  and  her  mother's  afi^ectionate 
sympathy,  checking  the  one  efTectually  by  lier  determined 
concealment  of  the  other.  Not  a  fortnight  afterwards, 
Madeleine  disappeared,  leaving  no  trace  of  her  path,  no 
clue  by  which  she  might  be  followed  ;  nothing  but  a  note, 
undiscovered  in  the  confusion,  and  not  found  till  some 
days  afterwards.  I  have  preserved  it ;  it  was  simply 
this  : — 

"  '  Mother,  it  is  over.  Before  you  receive  this  I  shall 
be  the  wife  of  Charles  Neville  ;  and  without  one  doubt, 
one  fear,  do  I  become  so.  I  believe  not  one  tittle  of  the 
charges  brought  against  him  ;  he  holds  my  fate,  and  I 
')nnst  be  his  alone.  All  existence,  save  his  love  for  me, 
and  mine  for  him,  is  burnt  up  within  me.  I  would  weep 
for  the  grief  this  decision  will  cause  you,  my  mother,  but 
I  cannot ;  I  would  ask  you  to  forgive  me,  but  I  cannot 
feel  that  I  have  done  aught  to  need  forgiveness.  You 
laid  a  positive  command  on  me  never  to  speak  with  him 
again,  a  command  impossible  to  be  obeyed,  and  therefore 
I  have  spared  all  needless  altercation,  deeming  it  better 
tacitly  to  acquiesce  than  to  excite  arguments  wliich  could 
easier  shake  the  ocean  rock  than  Madeleine.  For  him 
who  sought  my  hand  I  told  him  I  had  no  heart  to  give ; 
yet  he  persisted,  and  he  is  fooled  according  to  his  folly. 
I  can  spare  no  further  thought  for  him  ;  all,  all  are  concen- 
trated in  my  husband.  His  fate  is  mine  ;  be  it  ignominy 
or  honor,  I  gloiy  thus  to  share  it.  I  know  not  our  home. 
He  is  a  wanderer,  and  long  years  must  pass  ere  we  meet 
again.  Forget  me ;  I  was  never,  never  could  be,  the 
friend,  the  comforter  to  you  that  Mary  is.  Let  her  be  now 
your  only  child ;  give  her  the  love  you  lavished  but  too 
fondly  upon  me.  God  bless  you,  mother,  too  good,  too  fond 
for  one  like  me.  '  Madeleine.' 

"  It  was  enough ;  Madame  Montoni  sunk  beneath  it. 
Every  inquiry,  every  efibrt  was  made  to  discover  some 
traces  of  the  fugitives  ;  but  all  was  vain.  My  wedding- 
day  had  been  originally  fixed  in  the  very  week  of  Made- 


woman's    FKIENDSIIir.  241 

leine's  flight,  but  of  course  it  was  postponed.  After  three 
months,  however,  Madam  Montoni  Avould  not  permit  a 
longer  delay  ;  she  said  she  had  no  wish  in  life  but  to  see 
us  united,  to  feel  that  I  was  happy,  and  would  be  loved 
and  cared  for  when  she  Avas  gone.  And  we  were  married 
according  to  her  wish  ;  she  bore  up  a  few  weeks  longer, 
and  then  sank,  her  child's  name  (coupled  with  forgiveness 
and  with  blessing)  the  last  word  upon  her  lips.  Her 
death,  and  the  lingering  anxieties  for  Madeleine,  whom  I 
still  loved  with  unchanging  aflection,  were  heavy  clouds  on 
the  dawn  of  our  wedded  life. 

"  "VYe  were  anxious  for  the  calm,  quiet  joys  of  England, 
yet  neither  regretted  that  my  husband  was  unavoidably 
detained  in  Italy,  still  hoping  that  we  might  yet  receive 
tidings  of  Madeleine.  I  saw  that  Edward  feared  more 
even  than  he  expressed,  and  the  sweet  promise  of  an  addi- 
tion to  our  domestic  happiness,  in  the  birth  of  a  child> 
could  not  make  me  happy  or  at  rest.  At  length  the 
longed-for  tidings  came.  It  would  have  been  difficult  for 
any  one  less  intimately  acquainted  with  my  poor  friend's 
writing  to  have  recognised  it,  in  the  almost  illegible 
scrawl,  but  for  me  the  wording  alone  was  sufficient.  And 
oh  !  even  now  the  agony  that  brief  note  caused  returns  in 
all  it?  force. 

"  *Mary,'  it  ran,  for  I  have  it  now  before  me,  'Mary, 
he  has  betrayed  me  I  It  was  all  true,  the  tale  they  told. 
<,<h  God  I  oh  God  !  that  I  should  live  to  say  it.  Yet  still 
I  loved  him,  aye,  so  loved  him,  that  though  I  knew  him 
guilty,  miserably,  miredeemingly  guilty,  I  clmig  to  him, 
worshipped  him  still ;  I  would  have  done  so  yet ;  I  would 
have  Ibllowed  him  wherever  his  wild  will  led  ;  I  would 
have  been  faithful,  loving,  to  the  end  :  but  he  has  trampled 
on  me,  scorned,  betrayed,  forsaken  me,  laughed  at  my 
mad  folly  in  so  loving  him  ;  sneered  at  the  weak  credulity 
which  believed  m  his  truth  and  worth  ;  and  more,  he  has 
dared  assert  that  our  marriage  was  null  and  void,  a  mere 
mockery  of  form ;  that  I  have  no  claim  on  him  ;  that  he 
has  done  by  me  as  by  many  others,  deceived,  betrayed, 
and  left  to  die.  Die  I  1  wtll  not  die  till  my  unborn 
babe  is  righted,  till  I  have  p-oofs  that  the  marriage  wgts 


242  woman's    FRIENDSHir. 

not  false,  I  know  it  was  not,  and  he  knows  it  also  ;  foi 
he  has  quailed  before  me  in  the  utterance  ol  his  foul  lie. 
I  will  traverse  Italy  till  I  have  discovered  the  priest  who 
united  us,  till  I  have  proofs  that  I  am  not  the  foul  thing 
he,  even  he,  the  merciless  betrayer,  has  dared  to  term  me. 
Mary,  I  will  do  this ;  you  know  me  ;  I  shall  not  fail. 
And  when  it  is  done,  when  my  child  is  cleared  from  aught 
of  stain,  I  will  come  to  my  mother's  grave,  {lie  told  me  1 
had  killed  her,)  come  to  her  grave  and  die  I' 

"  Florence,  my  child,  will  you  read  this  unmoved  ? 
Has  it  no  deeper  voice  than  the  mere  narrative  of  one  now 
gone  ?  Alas,  alas  I  I  dare  not  hope  it.  Nature  will  have 
voice.  My  child,  my  blessed  child,  believe  those  words, 
believe  them  as  I  do,  as  I  have  ever  done,  that  she  was 
7iot  deceived,  but  the  villain  foiled  himself. 

•^  •!£.  JA.  M,  .&£• 

■w  tIF  ^  ^  ^ 

"  Again  I  have  been  ill,  my  Florence,  but  am  once  more 
permitted  to  resimie  my  task  ;  I  would  not  end  it  as  above — 
I  Avould  conclude — conceal  these  papers  where  naught  but 
a  special  Providence  can  bring  them  to  your  eyes.  I  am 
not  weakly  superstitious ;  I  believe  in  neither  fate  nor 
chance,  but  I  do  beheve  that  a  Father's  arm  is  around  us  ; 
that  a  Father's  love  will  spare  my  child  all  needless  woe  ; 
and,  if  it  be  not  for  a  special  good,  will  permit  these  papers 
to  remain  unseen  forever. 

**  The  emotions  caused  by  that  dreadful  letter  occa- 
sioned premature  confinement.  I  was  very  ill  some  weeks ; 
but  my  child,  a  girl,  though  weakly,  promised  to  survive. 
But  for  Madeleme,  what  could  we  do  ?  The  letter  bore 
no  date,  no  place  of  residence  ;  the  post-mark  was  obh- 
terated — all  seemed  a  dark,  shapeless  mystery,  which  no 
effort  could  solve.  We  were  then  at  Rome,  and  the 
wisest  plan  appeared  to  be,  to  return  to  Florence,  and 
there  wait  (making  every  possible  inquiry  meanwhile)  my 
poor  friend's  appearance  ;  I  never  doubted  she  would 
come.  Though  her  intentions  with  regard  to  the  cure  who 
had  married  them  were  vague  and  undefined,  I  knew  hei 
so  well  that  I  felt  convinced  she  would  persevere  in  finding 
him,  and  hoped  she  had  more  perfect  intelligence  of  hia 
ibode  than  her  letter  revealed. 


WOMAN    S    FPwIENDSHIP.  243 

'•  To  Florence  then  we  detennined  on  returning,  as  soon 
tts  my  strength  would  permit ;  but  so  greatly  had  my  health 
been  shaken  that  it  Avas  full  ten  weeks  after  hearing  from 
her  ere  we  set  off.  My  child  of  course  accompanied  us, 
and  one  female  attendant  who  had  long  been  in  Madame 
Montoni's  service,  and  was  faithfully  attached  to  us  all. 
About  the  middle  of  the  second  day's  journey  my  poor 
babe  was  suddenly  taken  ill.  No  house  or  village  being 
near,  we  proceeded  as  rapidly  as  possible,  hoping  to  reach 
some  town  where  medical  aid  might  be  procured.  Speed, 
however,  for  my  infant  was  of  no  avail  ;  she  expiied  in 
my  arms  before  evening  fell,  and  just  as  we  reached  a 
miserable  looking  house  near  the  source  of  the  Arno.  My 
husband  saw  that  assistance  for  our  child  was  indeed  vain ; 
but  being  greatly  alarmed  for  mie,  he  determined,  if  he 
could  but  procure  a  comfortable  room,  to  remain  there  that 
night  instead  of  going  farther. 

O  CO 

"  The  hostess  received  us  kindly  and  hospitably,  but 
declared  she  hardly  knew  how  to  accommodate  us,  as  the 
only  good  room  she  had  was  occupied  by  a  lady  who  had 
only  been  confined  three  days,  and  was  very  ill  indeed  ; 
adding  that  the  poor  lady  was  quite  alone,  and  she  thought 
sometlmig  was  wrong  in  her  mind,  she  looked  and  talked 
so  strangely.  Much  more  she  might  have  said,  but  I  heard 
her  not  ;  a  new  and  terrible  emotion  roused  me  from  the 
stupor  which  had  fallen  on  me  ;  strength,  mental  and 
bodily,  seemed  suddenly  restored  in  the  thought  that 
Madeleine,  my  poor  Madeleine  was  found,  and  needed 
me.  I  flew  to  the  apartment  pointed  out  as  hers — I  stood 
beside  the  miserable  couch,  and  one  glance  sufficed  me. 
Notwithstanding  the  awful  change  from  blooming  health 
to  the  hues  of  death — for  at  first  I  thought  she  was  gone 
forever — I  recognised  my  beloved  and  sufiering  friend. 
She  lay  as  if  unconscious,  save  that  her  arm  clasped  her 
child  who  was  sleeping  in  all  the  peace  of  infant  slumber, 
its  little  head  cradled  on  the  bosom  which  had  naught  but 
love  to  give. 

" '  Madeleine,'  I  shrieked,  as  I  threw  myself  on  my 
knees  beside  her,  and  pressed  the  thin  cold  hand  again 
and  again  to  my  lips  ;  '  Madeleine,  friend,  sister  ;  speak  to 
me  but  one  word  ;  tell  me  you  know  me — love  me.' 


244  woman's    friendship. 

"  My  wild  words  recalled  the  departing  soul ;  lier  cyus 
opened,  fixed  themselves  on  my  face  with  such  a  glare  of 
inquiry,  of  hope  strugghng  with  doubt,  that  I  could 
scarcely  sustain  the  gaze  ;  and  then  she  sprung  up  ;  fc,he 
threw  one  arm  convulsively  round  my  neck,  and  the 
wild,  sharp,  agonized  accent  of  her  voice  thriUs  on  me 
now. 

"  '  Mary — Mary — Mary  I '  she  reiterated  ;  *  God  has 
brought  you — none  but  He,  to  save,  love — my  child,  my 
child — no  stain,  no  shame.  I  have — '  and  her  voice  was 
bst  m  a  gurgling  rush  of  blood,  streaming  from  mouth 
and  ear  and  nostril ;  her  head  drooped,  her  arm  sunk 
powerless — a  few  minutes,  the  rushing  torrent  ceased,  and 
all  was  still. 

"  I  know  not  how  long  I  remained  kneeling  motionlesa 
beside  the  couch,  gazing  as  if  fascinated  on  the  counte- 
nance of  the  dead,  gleaming  forth  in  such  ghastly  white- 
ness from  the  dark  lurid  stains  wdiich  had  dyed  the  linen 
all  around  her.  I  heard  not  my  husband's  voice,  nor 
knew  that  he  stood  beside  me.  It  was  the  feeble  wail  of 
an  infant  which  aroused  me  ;  bewildered  and  feverish,  I 
imagined  it  the  voice  of  my  own  child,  and  snatched  it  to 
my  bosom  ;  its  little  face  and  hands  and  dress  were  dyed 
with  its  mother's  blood.  Fearfully,  hurriedly,  I  removed 
those  unseemly  stains,  clothed  it  in  clean,  refreshing 
garments  ;  and  then  I  gave  it  food,  its  natural  food  ;  and 
as  it  eagerly  and  helplessly  clung  to  my  breast,  as  I  felt  its 
little  head  nestling  against  me  as  my  own  poor  babe  had 
done,  sense  and  energy  returned  in  a  passionate  burst  of 
tears. 

"  Night  came.  They  had  removed  all  that  was 
horrible  from  the  chamber  of  death  ;  and  side  by  side 
they  had  laid  the  dead,  my  infant  and  my  friend.  All  but 
my  own  maid  believed  them  mother  and  child  ;  and  there 
was  no  need  to  dispel  the  illusion.  That  night,  as  I  looked 
upon  the  innocent  babe  so  strangely,  so  providentially 
thrown  upon  my  care,  the  sole  record  of  those  I  had  loved 
with  a  daughter's  and  sister's  tenderness,  who  appeared 
made  mine  to  fill  up  the  void  which  my  poor  babe's  death 
had  wrought  ;  as  I  felt  how  utterly  it  was  dependent  upon 
me,  nay,  mine  in  all  save  life  itself,  I  knelt  before  my  bus* 


woman's  friendship.  245 

baiid,  I  conjured  liim  to  let  me  call  it  ours,  to  fold  it  to  our 
hearts  in  lieu  of  the  infant  taken  from  us  ;  like  her  it  was 
a  girl,  and  whoever  its  father  might  bo,  we  robbed  it,  by- 
adoption,  of  no  legal  heritage.  It  was  indeed  a  weighty- 
boon,  though  at  the  moment  I  knew  not  its  extent ;  I  only 
saw  the  struggle  in  my  husband  ere  he  could  grant  it.  He 
bade  me  reflect  on  all  I  might  draAV  down  upon  myself — 
we  k^iew  nothing  of  its  father,  but  that  he  Avas  a  man  of 
sin ;  we  knew  not  even  if  its  birth  were  legitimate.  He 
bade  me  ponder  well,  if,  should  we  have  other  children,  I 
could  still  bestow  on  cur  adopted  one  the  same  love.  It 
needs  not  to  repeat  all  that  passed  between  us.  It  Avas 
evident  his  only  objection  was  its  doubtful  birth,  and  the 
evil  passions  it  might  inherit  from  both  its  parents.  Even 
after  a  long  struggle,  and  he  had  granted  my  boon,  and 
granted  it  in  such  a  manner  as  tenfold  to  increase  the  love 
and  esteem  I  bore  him,  he  still  wished  me  to  bring  up  the 
child  as  an  adopted  one,  not  as  my  own,  fearing  the  effect 
of  concealment  and  deception  on  my  own  heart.  But  at 
such  a  moment  I  could  not  realize  this  fear — I  could  not 
believe  that  aught  of  misery  or  remorse  could  spring  from 
a  deception  only  acted  to  secure  the  happiness  of  an  inno- 
cent being  committed  to  my  care.  And  even  in  this  my 
generous  Edward  at  length  acceded.  And  in  after  years, 
when  in  your  deep  yearnings  for  Italy,  your  love  for  ail 
that  Avas  high  and  noble  in  art  and  poetry,  there  I  traced 
your  mother's  nature,  and  trembled  lest  similar  sufTeringj 
should  be  yours ;  AAdien  I  saAV  you  quitting  the  child,  foi 
the  high-souled  loving  girl,  and  I  thought  on  all  woman's 
trials,  and  dark  forebodings  and  remorseful  fears  crept 
over  me,  bidding  me  dread  I  ImeAv  not  what.  Never 
once  did  my  beloved  husband  upbraid  me  for  having  acteii 
contrary  to  his  adAdce  ;  nay,  he  could  not  share  my  fears ; 
for  when  I  was  tortured  by  the  feeling  that,  even  to  secure 
your  happiness  I  had  done  Avrong — that  there  was  actual 
sin  in  forfeiting  the  straight  line  of  truth,  he  soothed  me 
by  the  assurance,  Avhich  I  could  see  he  felt  himself,  that  I 
had  done  right — I  had  secured  the  happiness  of  our  adopted, 
and  given  him  a  treasure  blessed  and  blessing  as  his  OAvn 
children.  And  so  we  both  felt,  my  Florence.  Every  yeai 
that  passed  bringing  forth  new  virtues,  new  qualities  to 

21* 


246  WOMAN    S    FRIENDSHli. 

endear.  \Yc  blessed  God  for  you,  my  child,  as  for  oui 
others  ;  aye,  and  bless  him  now,  for  what  have  you  not 
been  to  us  ?  how  blessedly  have  you  repaid  our  cares  I 
Are  you  not  ours  still  ?  Minie  has  been  the  breast  to 
nourish,  the  hand  to  guide,  the  lips  to  train.  Florence,  my 
beloved,  my  own,  oh !  think  of  me,  call  me  your  mother 
Bin. 


"  My  strength  is  waning,  my  sweet  child.  Niih  increase 
of  difficulty  my  pen  resumes  its  task. 

*'  By  my  poor  Madeleine's  dying  words,  it  seemed  to  us 
that  she  must  have  obtained  some  positive  proof  of  the 
legality  of  her  marriage,  and  was  in  possession  of  papers 
to  that  effect.  Greatly  to  our  disappointment,  however, 
not  any  such  could  be  found.  The  hostess  reiterated  her 
assurances  that  the  poor  lady  had  brought  nothing  Avith 
her,  and  as  there  could  be  nothing  in  a  bundle  of  papers 
to  tempt  cupidity  or  falsehood,  we  were  compelled  to 
believe  her.  My  husband,  I  saw,  imagined  poor  Made- 
leine's words  the  mere  excitement  of  her  own  belief  I 
could  not  think  this,  and  still  believe  she  had  foundation 
for  her  assertion.  There  was  no  need  of  a  bribe  to  per- 
suade our  hostess  to  declare,  if  any  inquiries  should  be 
made,  that  the  poor  infant  had  died  with  its  mother ;  for 
she  herself  believed  it  was  so.  I  know  not  if  such 
inquiries  were  ever  made,  for  we  never  saw  the  vale 
of  Arjio  nor  its  inmates  again.  Our  own  maid,  the  only 
participator  of  our  treasured  secret,  was  too  faithfully  at- 
tached to  us  and  to  the  poor  child  ever  to  divulge  it.  Even 
in  her  marriage,  (for  she  married  soon  afterwards,  and  went 
to  France,)  to  the  hour  of  her  death,  it  never  passed  her 
lips.  "We  stayed  another  year  in  Italy,  and  then  returned 
to  England.  Walter  and  Minie  were  successively  granted 
us,  and  the  love  you  bore  them,  the  constant  sacrifices  of 
your  own  childish  pleasures  to  enhance  theirs,  only  strength- 
ened the  links  between  us,  and  instead  of  lessening  the  love 
we  bore  you,  incalculably  increased  it.  All  was  forgotten. 
save  that  you  were  indeed  our  own. 

"  Nearly  three-and-twenty  years  have  passed  since  the 
daj  which  made  you  ours  ;  yet  never  have  we  heard  the 


woman's  friendship.  247 

name  of  Charles  Neville  or  traced  liis  course.  His  counte- 
nance, liis  figure,  were  too  remarkable  ever  to  be  forgotten, 
or  mistaken,  and  notwithstanding  the  lapse  of  years,  both 
my  husband  and  myself  would  have  recognised  him  on 
the  instant,  had  he  ever  crossed  our  path.  Every  inqmry 
we  could  make  without  exciting  suspicion  was  made  both 
in  Italy  and  England,  but  all  have  been  without  efiect; 
and  if  he  still  hves,  it  must  be  under  some  other  name.  I 
have  seen  none  like  him,  none  who  ever  recalled  his  fea- 
tures— I  am  Avrong,  I  have  seen  one,  but  the  image  was 
faint  and  shadowy ;  yet  it  brought  back  thoughts  of  the 
past,  strangely  and  undefinably.  My  hand  fails  me — what 
is  this  sudden  mist  ?     Florence — my  cliild — " 

^  ^  ^  ^  ^ 

The  last  line  was  almost  wholly  illegible,  the  words 
"  Florence,  my  child,"  were  blotted,  as  if  the  pen  had 
there  fallen  ;  and  the  desire  to  conclude  and  to  conceal 
those  momentous  records,  was  frustrated  by  the  stroke  of 
unconsciousness,  and  of  death. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

TmNKINCr    WHAT    THE    WORLD    WILL    SAY. — A    STRANGE 
CIRCUMSTANCE. 

To  Lord  St.  Maur's  great  surprise,  he  found  his  wife  still 
sitting  up  awaiting;  his  return,  and  evidently  feeling  no  in- 
clination to  retire  to  rest.  Her  eyes  were  heavy,  but  it  was 
with  tearfe.  "Ida,  love,  what  has  chanced?"  he  asked. 
"  Is  that  poor  girl  worse  ?  No  ?  why,  that's  well :  then 
what's  the  matter?  If  you  were  a  sentimental  novel 
reader,  I  should  fancy  you  had  met  with  some  delightful 
work  of  the  kind,  which  had  beguiled  you  of  tears  far  too 
precious  to  be  thus  wasted." 

"  Would  they  had  been  so  called,  my  dear  husband. 
I  scarcely  know  how  to  tell  you  all  in  a  few  words  ;  and 
yet  I  could  not  retire  to  rest  without  doing  so.  Do  not 
look  so  anxious  ;  it  is  nothing  concermng  myself,  but  much 
for  my  poor  Florence." 


248  woman's  friendship. 

*'  Florence  !  why,  what  of  her  ?  Does  she  repent  hei 
caprice  in  rejecting  Howard,  and  wish  to  call  him  back 
again  ?  I  am  afraid,  in  that  case,  I  cannot  help  her : 
she  should  have  thought  twice  ere  she  decided,"  replied  the 
Earl,  smiling. 

"  Pray  do  not  jest,  dearest  Edmund  ;  my  tale  is  but  too 
*erious  and  sad."  And  briefly  she  narrated  her  interview 
with  Florence — its  terrible  communication,  and  its  con- 
firmation by  the  manuscript  still  open  beside  her,  but  on 
the  contents  of  which,  at  that  moment.  Lady  St.  Maur  did 
not  enter. 

The  Earl's  open  brow  contracted.  "  I  would  not  speali 
ill  of  the  dead,"  he  said,  "but  Mrs.  Leshe  has  acted  wrong- 
ly ;  she  should  never  have  permitted  Florence  to  pass  m 
her  own  child." 

"So  I  felt  at  first ;  but  I  cannot  feel  it  now.  Think 
of  the  misery  poor  Florence  must  have  endured  from  the 
moment  she  emerged  from  childhood,  had  the  truth  been 
known." 

"  Better  than  such  misery  a^  is  hers  now.  Measures 
should  have  been  taken,  instead  of  suppressing,  to  pro- 
claim the  truth — to  call  upon  all  who  had  been  accessory 
to  the  marriage,  real  or  pretended.  Some  clue  must .  then 
have  been  found,  and  the  child  resigned  to  its  natural 
guardian,  or  brought  up  by  Mrs.  Leshe  under  its  own 
name." 

"But  had  all  their  efforts  failed — which,  from  the  peru- 
sal of  these  papers,  I  think  most  likely — poor  Madeleine's 
tale  would  have  been  rumored  all  over  Italy ;  and  loving 
her  as  she  did,  could  Mrs.  Leslie  have  borne  this  ?" 

"  Yes,  if  it  had — which  it  might  have  done — proved  the 
legality  of  the  marriage.  That  proved,  if  she  still  wished 
to  adopt  the  child,  she  might  have  done  so ;  there  would 
then  have  been  no  need  to  hide  the  truth,  and  Florence 
would  have  been  so  spared  all  the  agony  of  this  dis- 
overy." 

"  Agony  indeed  ;   but  as  it  is — " 

"  As  it  is,  I  rejoice  that  she  is  now  so  rich  an  heiress  as 
to  be  independent  of  your  benevolence,  further  than  the 
wnve9iance  of  general  society." 


woman's   friendship.  249 

Lady  St.  Maur  raised  her  eyes  to  his  face,  in  bewildered 
Inquiry.  "  What  can  you  mean,  my  dear  husband  ?  How 
nan  this  unfortunate  circumstance  affect  my  affection  for, 
and  interest  in,  Florence  ?" 

*'  Easily,  my  dear  Ida.  Can  a  person  of  such  doubtful 
birth  and  parentage  continue  a  fit  companion  for  the 
Countess  St.  Maur  ? 

"  And  why  not  ?"  replied  the  Countess,  laying  her  hand 
upon  her  husband's  arm,  while  her  beautiful  eyes  glistened 
with  the  energy  of  her  appeal.  "My  own  husband, 
banish  such  a  worldling's  thought  !  It  was  not  yourself 
who  spoke.  You  could  not  bid  me  forsake  one  I  have  so 
long  loved,  and  who  has  shown  herself  so  worthy  of  that 
love,  because  the  merest  chance,  proceeding  from  the  un- 
controllable  agony  of  the  noblest  act  she  has  yet  performed, 
has  revealed  a  doubt — for  it  is  nothing  more — upon  the 
legitimacy  of  her  birth.  Read  these  papers,  and  you  will 
feel  as  I  do  :  you  cannot  bid  me  forsake  my  poor  friend 
in  her  deep  misery.     Edmund,  you  cannot  do  this  I" 

"  Thanks  to  your  sweet  eloquence,  my  Ida  ;  it  has  re- 
called my  better  nature  :  it  was,  indeed,  with  a  woiidlLig's 
tongue  I  spoke,  thinking  what  the  world  would  say." 

"  The  world  I  God  forbid  the  world  should  ever  know 
it  I  '  Yet,  did  I  forsake  her,  how  could  such  publicity  be 
avoided  ?  No,  not  even  to  Minie  would  I  have  it  im- 
parted. Your  honor  is  my  own  ;  in  pledging  my  wprd 
tD  secrecy,  I  undertook  for  you  also,  my  husband.  Head 
but  these  papers  ;  do  not  decide  upon  my  future  treatment 
to  Florence  till  that  is  done.  I  willingly  wait  your  de- 
termination, fo;-  I  know  what  it  will  be." 

Lord  St.  Maur  promised  to  do  all  she  desired,  on  condi- 
tion that  she  would  take  the  rest  she  so  much  needed,  and 
trust  his  zeal  for  Florence's  welfare  as  truly  as  her  own. 
He  was  as  good  as  his  word.  When  the  Countess  joined 
him  in  the  library  the  following  morning,  the  important 
papers  had  been  already  perused,  and  the  Earl  sat  with 
his  hand  resting  upon  them,  evidently  in  .^eep  thought : 
he  looked  up  as  his  wife  entered,  and  spoke  with  some 
emotion.  "  You  are  right,  dearest :  it  would  indeed  be 
unnecessary  cruelty  to  make   Florence   pay  the  forfeit  of 


20C  WOMAN    S    FrwIENDSHIP. 

that  villain  Neville's  sin.  You  shall  still  be  her  friend, 
my  Ida  ;  we  must  do  all  we  can  to  give  back  the  peace 
she  so  much  needs." 

"  And  Howard — is  there  a  hope,  a  chance  of  bringing 
them  again  together  ?  The  blow  has  fallen  heaviest  there. 
"Why,  why  did  these  fatal  papers  ever  reach  her  eye  ? 
Can  it  be  lor  good  ?" 

"  Ida,  my  beloved,  it  is,  it  must  be,  or  it  would  not  have 
been,"  replied  her  husband.  "  We  must  endeavor  to 
persuade  her,  also,  that  so  it  is;  that  in  being  thus  re- 
vealed to  her,  the  prayer  of  her  adopted  mother  has  been 
heard  and  granted." 

"  I  ought  to  believe  it,  Edmund,  but  mdeed  it  is  diffi- 
cult ;  and  'Howard — she  would  shrink  in  natural  repug- 
nance from  telling  him  the  truth  :  but  cannot  you  or  I  ? 
Surely  her  case  does  not  come  within  the  pale  of  those 
unfortunate  attachments  he  so  lately  and  so  solemnly  for- 
swore ?" 

The  Earl  looked  very  thoughtful  ere  he  replied.  "  I  am 
not  quite  sure  whether  Howard,  with  his  peculiar,  perhaps 
over-scrupulous  notions  as  to  the  purity  of  the  woman  he 
loves,  would  not  shrink  back  from  an  union  with  one 
whose  father  is  utterly  unknown,  save  as  a  villain.  No  ; 
Florence  has  decided  not  only  nobly,  but  as  regards  Frank, 
most  wisely.  Better  he  should  never  be  undeceived, 
never  know  that  he  really  had  power  over  a  heart  like 
hers." 

"  But  then  is  not  his  happmess  sacrificed  as  well  as 
hers?" 

"  Only  for  a  short  time  ;  whereas,  if  the  truth  be  re- 
vealed, he  will  be  tortured  by  various  contending  feeUngs, . 
likely  to  ruin  his  peace  forever.  As  it  is,  believing  as  he 
does  that  he  has  been  rejected,  and  decisively,  a  few 
months  will  effect  his  cure." 

"  A  few  months,  my  dear  Edmund  !  Does  man's  love, 
even  granting  he  believes  it  unreturned,  last  only  that 
period  ?" 

"Not  always;  but  in  Howard's  case  I  feel  assured  it 
will  last  no  longer.  You  will  be  shocked  and  disappointed, 
my  dear  Ida,  but  I  confess  that  I  never  shared  your  san- 
guine  expectations  with    regard   to    this   union.      It   haa 


woman's  friendship.  251 

always  ajjpeared  to  me,  that  his  regard  for  her  was  more 
ike  a  hrotheis  than  a  lover's — too  calm,  too  dispassionate, 
for  love  in  a  person  like  Frank,  whose  feelings  are  never 
of  the  quietest  kind." 

"  But  '  still  currents  run  the  deepest,'  "  replied  his  wife, 
with  a  faint  smile. 

"  Yes,  love,  in  all  passions  but  that  of  Love.  It  may, 
indeed,  be  concealed,  but  then  the  outward  man  will 
suffer.  Never  tell  me  that  Howard  would  not  have  visibly 
suffered,  had  Florence's  dependent  situat'on  been  the  sole 
obstacle  to  the  declaration  of  his  affection.  If  he  had 
really  loved,  and  felt  that  love  was  hopeless  as  long  as  his 
father  lived,  he  would  either  have  fled  from  her,  or  been 
hurried  into  an  avowal  of  his  feelings.  I  know  him  wvll 
enough,  to  be  quite  certaui  that  he  could  not  have  con- 
cealed them." 

"  But  what  has  made  him  act  as  he  has  done  now  .'" 
persisted  Lady  St.  Maur.  "  There  could  be  no  occasion  for 
him  to  make  her  an  offer,  if  he  really  did  not  love." 

"  I  do  not  say  he  does  not  fancy  himself  in  love,  or  that 
he  has  not  done  so  some  time  ;  but  only  that  one  of  these 
days  he  will  find  himself  mistaken,  and  that  boota  fide  love 
will  affect  him  in  a  very  different  manner.  Till  we  re- 
turned to  England,  he  was  so  immersed  in  pohtics,  in 
studying  elocution,  rhetoric,  and  such  things,  as  to  have 
little  thought  and  less  inclination  for  indiscriminate  female 
society.  Your  interest  in  Florence,  and  the  many  trials 
she  had  undergone,  affected  him,  and  inclined  him  towards 
her.  The  last  few  months,  her  bereavement,  and  its  sad 
effect  upon  her,  of  course,  excited  his  warmest  sympathy  ; 
and  this  his  fancy  has  magnified  into  a  still  warmer  feeling. 
He  has  no  belief  in  platonic  affection  subsistmg  between 
the  sexes  ;  and  therefore,  as  no  woman  ever  interested  him 
as  Florence  has  done,  he  fancies  it  must  be  love." 

*'  For  his  sake  I  hope  you  may  be  right,  but  for  my  poor 
friend  it  matters  little.  Yet,  should  your  suggestions  prove 
incorrect,  and  Frank  does  really  love  her,  will  you  not  make 
some  effort  to  bring  them  again  together  ?" 

"  Wait  till  Frank  returns  fi-om  accompanying  Lord 
Edgemere  on  his  pleasure  trip.  If  he  can  still  associate 
with  Florence  calmly,  and  find  pleasure  in  her  society  aa 


252  woman's  friendship. 

before  take  my  word  for  it  lie  has  never  loved.  Rejection 
may  be  cold  water  on  love's  flame,  and  incite  pride,  and 
all  kinds  of  petty  feelings,  to  case  up  the  heart  ;  hut  it 
never  yet  so  conquered  true  afiection  as,  by  six  months'  ab- 
sence, to  permit  untroubled  association  with  its  object 
Yo'j  smile — remember  I  only  spoke  of  Frank  when  I  said 
a  few  months  will  effect  his  cure  " 

"  And  you  really  tliink  it  is  only  as  a  brother  that  he 
feels?" 

"  So  much  so  that  I  was  rather  pleased  than  otherwise, 
to  hear  that  Florence  had  rejected  him  ;  fearing  that  he 
might  chance  to  discover  that  he  had  been  Laboring  undei 
a  delusion  when  it  was  too  late.  But  I  have  almost  for- 
gotten that  I  had  something  else  to  say  to  you  relative  to, 
or  rather  recalled  by  these  papers.  Do  you  remember  a 
etrange  circumstance  mentioned  to  us  just  before  we  re- 
turned home  two  years  ago  ?"  Lady  St.  Maur  did  not 
remember  it.  **  By-the-way,  no  ;  I  do  not  think  you  were 
present,  nor  indeed  has  it  ever  crossed  my  mind  again  till 
this  morning ;  but  you  remember  Herbert  Elford's  love  of 
exploring  ?  W  ell,  on  one  of  these  occasions  he  remained 
a  day  or  two  at  a  rustic  village  inn,  near  the  source  of  the 
Jjino.  When  there,  the  host,  after  many  apologies,  asked 
him,  as  an  Englishman,  to  take  charge  of  a  small  ebony 
casket,  containing  some  papers,  which  he  understood  were 
English,  and  endeavor  to  discover  their  rightful  owner. 
He  confessed  that  in  his  youth,  when  performing  the  part 
of  hostler,  waiter,  and  many  others,  to  the  late  mistress  of 
the  inn,  he  had  believed  petty  larceny  no  sin, -and  had  pur- 
loined tills  casket  or  case  from  a  poor  woman  who  had  come 
there  in  great  distress,  given  birth  to  a  dead  cliild,  and  died. 
They  had  never  known  who  or  what  she  was,  except  that 
she  spoke  in  a  strange  language.  Some  benevolent  English 
who  had  arrived  there  by  chance,  had  her  decently  buried 
in  the  church,  but  put  no  name  upon  the  tomb.  From  the 
great  beauty  of  the  casket  he  thought  it  must  ?ontain  gems 
or  coin,  and  had  removed  it  as  its  owner  lay  in  the  stupor  of 
death.  Never  hearing  any  inquiries  made  fo^  it,  he  con- 
sidered his  prize  secure.  Instead,  however,  of  finding 
gems,  the  casket  contained  nothing  but  papers.  Thirteen 
years  afterwards  he  became  master  of  the  inn  '  but  Ibi 


woman's   friendship.  253 

-ome  time  all  went  wrong  wdtli  him,  and  lie  began  to  feel 
twinges  of  conscience  for  past  misdemeanors.  He  betook 
himself  to  a  priest,  made  full  confession,  and  received 
absolution,  coupled  with  an  imperative  command  to  de- 
liver the  casket  and  its  contents  to  the  first  English  trav- 
eller who  would  take  them  in  charge.  For  seven  years 
he  had  not  seen  such  a  person,  but  the  prosperity  following 
his  confession  had  convinced  him  that  he  could  not  neglect 
the  priest's  charge  now  an  opportunity  oflered,  without 
calling  down  on  him  the  wrath  of  the  saints,  and  so  he 
entreated  Elford  to  release  him  of  his  burden.  Damp 
and  musty  papers,  however,  had  no  charm  for  one  so  wild 
and  volatile  as  Elford.  Had  the  lady  been  living,  the 
affair  might  have  looked  like  an  adventure,  and  been  wel- 
comed accordingly  ;  but  as  she  was  dead,  and  the  child 
too,  there  could  be  nothing  in  it,  so  he  merely  glanced  his 
eye  over  them,  fancied  they  looked  like  love-letters,  and 
returned  the  casket  to  the  landlord,  advising  him  by  all 
means  to  guard  them  safely  still,  for  he  had  no  doubt  they 
would  one  day  be  claimed.  It  is  strange  how  completely 
all  this  had  faded  from  my  memory,  and  equally  strange  is 
the  vividness  with  which  it  has  all  been  recalled  by  the 
perusal  of  these  papers." 

"  And  do  you  think  there  is  a  probability  of  their  being 
coimected?"  exclaimed  Lady  St  Maur,  who  had  listened 
to  this  recital  with  intense  eagerness.  "  Can  we  procure 
them  ?  Could  Ave  but  remove  the  mystery  hanging  ovei 
our  poor  Florence,  there  might  be  happiness  in  store  for 
her  yet  ' 

"  My  dearest  Ida,  we  must  not  permit  the  hope  of  such 
a  chance  too  hastily.  Even  were  we  to  obtain  possession 
of  these  papers,  they  may  not  be  those  we  so  much  de- 
sired. The  outline  of  the  tale  alone  I  remember  ;  ther? 
may  have  been  other  circumstances  narrated,  which  may 
throw  completely  a  different  coloring  over  the  whole, 
^Tiere  Herbert  Elford  is  at  present  I  do  not  know,  noi 
have  I  much  chance  of  tracing  him.  Do  not  look  so  dis- 
appointed, my  dear  love,  I  would  not  entirely  check  yoU7 
hopes,  but  I  would  caution  you  against  exciting  any  in 
Florence.  All  we  must  endeavor  to  do  is  to  soothe  hei 
ba'ck  into  tranquillity,  to  convince  her  that  the  character 


254  WOMAN*S    FRIENDSHIP. 

evinced  by  her  whole  conduct,  and  if  possible  yet  more 
nobly  in  her  resolution  with  regard  to  Frank,  is  alone  re- 
membered. Do  you  do  this,  my  love,  and  trust  my  vigi- 
lance for  the  rest ;  only  give  me  time.  A  year,  perhaps 
more,  may  elapse  before  I  can  obtaui  these  much-desired 
papers." 

"  I  will  try  to  be  patient,  Edmund  ;  but  it  will  be  very 
difficult ;  however,  I  will  follow  your  advice.  But  this 
Charles  Neville,  did  you  never  hear  of  or  meet  with  such 
a  person?" 

"Never  that  I  can  recollect.  I  greatly  fear  the  name 
Avas  but  assumed ;  and  if  so,  I  suspect  the  marriage,  how- 
ever duly  performed,  registered,  and  witnessed,  will  not 
hold  good.  However,  I  will  make  every  inquiry  that  I 
can  without  exciting  curiosity,  and  meanwhile  we  must 
hope  and  wait." 


CHAPTER  XLH. 

NOT    ALONE. CONSOLATION    IN    FRIENDSHIP. 

It  would  be  equally  needless  and  painful  to  linger  on 
the  long-continued  sufferings  of  poor  Florence,  before  the 
energy  of  life  in  any  way  returned.  Fever,  which  the 
terrible  inward  struggle  of  nearly  three  months'  con- 
tinuance had  excited,  was  so  long  in  being  subdued,  that 
Lord  and  Lady  St.  Maur,  even  Sir  Charles  Brashleigh 
himself,  more  than  once  trembled  lest  the  lost  of  either 
Hfe  01  reason  sh  Duld  ensue  ;  and  when  fever  was  over- 
come, it  seemed  as  if  she  must  sink  under  the  utter  ex- 
haustion of  mind  and  frame  which  followed. 

Her  constitution,  however,  though  delicate,  was  good ; 
and  all  Lady  St.  Maur's  kindness  and  attention  were 
devoted  to  prove  that  she  was  dearer  to  her  friend  than 
ever.  But  the  heart  and  frame  had  received  too  severe  a 
shock  for  even  affection  to  be,  as  yet,  of  much  avail. 
After  weeks  of  unconscious  agony  she  did  indeed  appear 
sensible  of  the  fond  cares  which  she  received,   and  as  if 


woman's  friendship.  2«>5 

she  struggled  to  prove  that  she  was  grateful ;  hut  the  ex- 
pression of  mourniulness  on  her  sweet,  shadowy  face,  too 
painfully  revealed  the  all-absorbing  woe. 

Lady  St.  Maur's  principal  care  was  to  conceal  Florence's 
ilhiess,  or  at  least  its  extent,  from  Minie  ;  and  to  do  so 
required  no  little  skill,  both  from  her  own  extreme  truth- 
fulness, which  shrunk  from  all  evasion,  and  that  the 
correspondence  between  the  sisters  never,  under  any 
circumstances,  flagged.  She  so  far  succeeded,  however, 
lis  to  satisfy  Minie,  who  wrote  a  playful  reproach  to 
Florence  for  not  taking  more  care  of  herself,  and  com- 
manding her  not  to  think  of  writing  to  her  till  Sir  Charles 
gave  her  permission  so  to  do.  Perhaps,  had  .the  mind  of 
the  young  girl  been  as  free  and  unoccupied  as  when  she 
had  first  joined  Lady  Mary,  she  would  have  been  less 
easily  satisfied  ;  but  new  thoughts,  new  feelings,  whoso 
ecstatic  enjoyment  had  never  even  been  dreamed  of  before, 
had  stolen  over  mind  and  heart ;  and  when  Florence  again 
awoke  to  outward  things,  she  became  aware  of  a  deeper, 
fuller  tone  in  her  sister's  letters,  irradiating  the  simplest 
incident  or  sentiment,  as  by  a  glow  of  summer  sunshine. 
Whence  emanated  that  irradiation  she  knew  not,  nor  did 
Minie  reveal  it.  The  young  girl  knew  she  felt ;  but  it 
was  a  sensation  too  sweet,  too  ethereal  for  aught  so  gross  as 
words. 

As  soon  as  Sir  Charles  believed  that  his  patient  might 
be  removed  in  safety.  Lord  St.  Maur  and  his  family  gladly 
left  London  for  Amersley,  and  there  it  was  that  Florence 
graduailv  and  painfully  became  conscious  that  life,  not 
death,  was  her  allotted  portion  ;  that  for  some  wise  though 
mscrutable  purpose  she  was  doomed  to  drag  on  existence, 
when  her  every  prayer  had  been  for  death.  She  felt 
n?.arked  out  for  sufiering  ;  not  a  gleam  might  descend  on 
her  blighted  heart  to  vivify  and  brmg  forth  hope.  Why 
was  this  her  doom  ?  Why  must  she  bear  it  ?  Alas,  who 
has  not  felt  at  some  period  of  our  life,  that  when  most 
needed,  the  power  of  prayer,  of  faith,  has  departed  from 
us,  and  even  by  our  God  we  are  forsaken  ;  that  we  can  no 
longer  trace  the  love  in  which,  till  that  moment,  we  thought 
we  had  believed  ? 

In  the  prostration  of  bodily  and  mental  energy,  Florence 


256  woman's    friendship. 

felt  that  she  had  wilfully  and  ncedle&sly  cast  happmesi 
from  her  ;  that  she  had  weaved  her  own  fate,  and  there- 
fore must  despair.  What  or  Avhom  had  she  to  live  for 
now  ?  The  brightest  links  of  life  were  snapped  asunder, 
and  love  she  had  thrown  from  her ;  her  heart  seemed 
scorched  and  dried  up  within  her  ;  every  feeling,  every 
thought  merged  in  the  one  sickly  longing  to  fold  Minie  tz 
her  heart,  and  die.  Physical  weakness  had,  of  course,  much 
to  do  with  this  morbid  state  of  feeling.  Lady  St.  Maur, 
sympathizing  deeply  with  her,  knew  not  in  Avhat  way  to 
rouse  or  give  her  comfort.  Of  Howard  she  felt  as  if  she 
could  not  speak,  for  she  had  no  hope  to  give  :  his  name 
never  passed  the  lips  of  Florence  ;  but  the  convulsive  con- 
traction of  her  features  whenever  Mime's  artless  effusions 
spoke  of  him,  which  they  did  very  often,  was  all-suthcient 
evidence  of  the  power  he  still  retained. 

Nothing  in  life  is  so  terrible  as  the  reaction  after  an 
extraordinary  self-sacrifice.  The  mind  almost  always  feels 
as  if  it  had  done  what  was  in  reality  needless,  and  might 
have  been  evaded.  Very  often  friends,  falsely  so  named 
in  such  cases,  add  to  this  pain,  by  agreeing  with  us,  and 
declaring  that  the  sacrifice  was  little  removed  from  folly  ; 
instead  of  doing  all  they  can  to  support  and  strengthen  the 
feeble  and  sinking  spirit,  by  upholding  its  integrity,  and 
afhrming  their  conviction  that  the  sacrifice  was  as  impera- 
tively demanded  as  nobly  made.  There  are  so  few,  unhap- 
pily, in  the  present  prosaic  state  of  things,  who  can  thus 
abnegate  self,  that  they  imagine  all  who  can  and  do  to  be 
under  the  influence  of  romantic  delusion — a  species  of 
enthusiasm,  which  la  in  fact  to  such  minds  but  another 
word  for  madness.  Fortunately  for  Florence,  the  Earl  and 
Countess  St.  Maur  were  not  of  these. 

Florence  had  been  sitting,  one  afternoon,  some  hours  at 
work — the  most  natural,  but  the  worst  occupation  for  a 
mind  diseased,  permitting,  as  it  does,  thought  to  run  on  as 
swiftly  and  engrossingly  as  absolute  idleness.  She  worked 
on  mechanically  till  twilight,  when,  believing  herself  alone, 
she  started  up  and  paced  the  room. 

"  Alone  !  alone  I"  she  unconsciously  repeated  al^ud. 
"  Had  I  but  one  tie  amongst  the  living  or  the  dead,  but 
ine  to  call  my  ovra  ;  but  there  is  none — none  ;  an  ou*«ast 


woman's  rniENDSHip.  257 

—  nameless — from  the  hour  of  my  birth  !  Oh,  what  a 
miserable  ingrate  to  speak  thus,  when  love — ^love,  such 
deep  love  has  been  lavished  on  me  ;  but  it  was  only  love- 
not  nature  ;  and  now — now  even  that  is  gone  ;  the  very 
dead  I  may  not  call  my  own.  Alone  !  Oh,  the  unutter- 
able anguish  of  that  word  ;  without  one  link,  one  friend — " 

"  Florence  I"  said  a  voice  of  mild  reproach  ;  "  have  you 
indeed  no  friends  ?" 

Florence  started,  and  flinging  herself  passionately  on 
the  ottoman  at  the  Countess's  feet,  she  hid  her  face  on  her 
Jap,  and  sobbed  forth,  "  Forgive  me,  oh,  forgive  me  ;  I 
knew  not  what  I  said  !  Miserable,  ungrateful  as  I  am, 
oh,  do  not  throw  me  off  as  I  deserve.  What  would  be  my 
wretched  fate  Avithout  you  ?" 

"  Hardly  worse  than,  by  your  own  words,  it  is  now, 
Florence,"  replied  Lady  St.  Maur.  "  I  would  indeed  be 
your  friend,  but  you  will  not  permit  me  ;  and  wrapping 
yourself  in  your  affliction,  heightening  it  by  imagmary  ills, 
you  feel  and  act  as  if  indeed  you  had  no  friend." 

"  Imaginary  I"  repeated  Florence,  and  she  loosed  her  hold 
of  Lady  St.  Maur's  hands,  clasped  her  own  tightly  together, 
and  turned  from  her. 

"  Yes,  dearest,  in  some  degree.  Now,  do  not  turn  from 
me,  as  if  I  could  feel  no  sympathy  in  your  deep  sorrow.  I 
do  not  say  you  have  nothing  for  which  to  grieve,  but  why 
increase  your  trials  by  dwelling  upon  fanciful  evils,  till 
your  mind  becomes  enervated  instead  of  strengthened  ? 
"VVhy  linger  on  the  idea  that  every  link  is  snapped  between 
you  and  those  you  love  so  well  ?  Can  the  love  of  three 
and  twenty  years  be  snapped  asunder  by  a  word  ?  Do  not 
dwell  upon  such  thoughts  as  you  gave  words  to  just  now, 
my  Florence  ;  they  are  v/rong,  sinful,  rebelling,  by  iacreas 
ing  grief." 

"But  she  is  gone — gone.  I  can  never  return  -fehe  weight 
cf  love  she  has  borne  for  me  ;  never,  never  repay  the  debt  I 
owe  her,"  answered  Florence,  with  a  burst  of  passionate, 
yet  softening  tears. 

"  Do  not  say  so,  dearest.  If  you  can  recall  any  one 
time  when  you  refused  .to  sacrifice  yourself  for  her,  these 
thoughts  may  be  permitted,  but  not  otherwise  ;  but  thir 
you  cannot  do.     You  cannot  tell  me  one  period  of  your  ex 

22'^ 


258  woman's   friendship. 

tstence  in  which  you  failed  in  duty  to  your  supposed 
parents,  or  in  love  for  their  children  ;  and  therefore  do  not 
weep  because  you  cannot  show  it  farther  now.  Look  back, 
and  bless  God  that  he  gave  you  strength  to  act  as  you 
have  done  ;  that  as  Mrs.  Leslie  indeed  filled  a  mother's 
part  towards  you,  so  did  you  perform  a  child's  towards 
her." 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  could  I  only  think  of  this  ;  but  the  one  dark 
thought  will  come,  and  poison  all  the  rest.  I  could  bear 
the  being  not  her  child,  but — "  And  the  softening  mood 
was  conquered  by  that  of  bitter  agony,  and  the  relieving 
tears  were  frozen,  as  she  wildly  clasped  Lady  St.  Maur's 
knees.  "Tell  me,  only  tell  me  theie  is  no  stain  upon  my 
birth,  and  I  can  bear  all  else,  even — even  to  lose — "  Her 
voice  was  choked. 

"  And  indeed  there  is  no  positive  proof,  my  Florence," 
replied  the  Countess,  with  a  voice  of  more  conviction  than 
she  felt ;  "all  must  be  conjecture  ;  yet  do  not  wholly 
despair.  All  now  is  dark,  and  seemingly  hopeless  ;  yet, 
if  God  wills,  dearest,  how  soon  all  may  be  made  hght, 
and  happiness  be  again  your  own  ;  not  as  it  has  been, 
perhaps,  but  more  enduring !  Read  those  papers  again 
You  shudder,  as  if  the  task  were  too  painful ;  yet  I  think, 
were  you  to  re-peruse  them,  you  would  believe,  as  your 
adopted  mother  conjures  you  to  believe,  that  there  is  no 
stain  upon  your  birth  ;  that  poor  Madeleine's  dying  words 
convinced  her  that  she  had  acquired  some  positive  proof 
that  her  child  was  legitimate  ;  and  though  no  such  proofs 
were  found,  it  is  not  impossible  such  may  exist.  And — " 
She  paused,  remembering  her  husband's  warning.  But 
Florence  could  not  hope ;  she  sank  back  on  her  low 
seat,  saying  less  wildly,  but  with  heart-rending  despon- 
dency— 

"  You  speak  but  to  comfort  me.  There  can  be  no  proof 
now.  It  would  have  come  to  light  long  ere  this,  were  it 
possible.     But  no,  no,  it  cannot  be." 

"  All  things  are  possible  with  God,  my  Florence  ;  his 
providence  willed  that  instead  of  being  concealed,  as  in- 
tended, the  papers  should  fall  into  your  hands,  unfinished 
a,s  they  were  ;    and  do  not  doubt  his  power  now." 

"  And  why  was  it  thus  revealed  ?  "Why  at  such  a  moment 


woman's   friendship.  259 

the  truth  made  known  ?     Oh  !  better  fai  that  I  had  never 
known  myself  other  than  I  am." 

"  Do  not  say  so,  Florence.  Had  you  always  known  the 
truth,  fancy  would  have  been  ever  at  work  to  make  your 
life  wretched.  Do  not  throw  such  reproach  upon  the  dead, 
by  whom  you  were  so  entirely  beloved  that  she  burdened 
herself  with  this  fatal  secret  to  preserve  your  joys  unsullied ; 
and  she  would  have  borne  it  with  her  to  the  grave,  had 
not  an  unconquerable  impulse  urged  her  to  its  disclosure. 
Your  adopted  mother's  prayer  was,  that  it  might  never 
be  known  unless  the  concealment  threatened  deeper  misery 
than  the  revelation.  She  believed  her  prayer  would  be 
granted  ;  try  and  believe  it  too,  my  Florence,  and  be  com- 
forted." 

"  Could  I  but  forget  the  mystery  around  my  birth  !" 
exclaimed  Florence,  after  some  minutes'  tearful  silence. 
"  But  I  cannot — cannot.  My  very  name  sounds  strange 
and  false  ;  I  have  no  right  to  it.  They  hail  me  as  the  loved 
and  cherished  sister  of  the  poet  Walter  ;  him  whom  I  so 
loved  to  feel,  to  glory  in,  as  brother  I  And  Minie,  my  happy 
Minie  !  how  may  I  bear  to  hear  her  call  me  sister,  to  cling 
to  me  as  such  again  ?" 

"  These  are  the  imaginary  ills  against  which  I  would 
warn  you,  my  own  Florence,"  replied  the  Countess,  sooth- 
ingly. "  Natural  as  they  are,  strive,  pray  against  them, 
till  they  are  in  part  at  least  subdued.  Your  noble  deed — 
the  sacrifice  of  woman's  dearest,  most  precious  hopes — must 
lor  the  time  givj  you  all  enough  to  bear." 

Florence  had  drooped  her  head  on  her  hands,  and  tears 
v/ere  streaming  faster  than  before  ;  and  though  her  slight 
frame  shook  with  the  paroxysm,  Lady  St.  Maur  felt,  and 
with  justice,  that  they  gave  relief. 

"  You  do  not  regret  this  decision,  my  Florence,"  she 
said,  after  a  brief  pause.  "  You  do  not  heighten  your 
present  sufferings  by  the  belief  that  the  sacrifice  was  un- 
needed  ?  You  would  not  recall  your  words  ?  Much  as  you 
are  now  enduring,  believe  me,  oh,  believe  me,  it  is  slight 
compared  to  what  it  would  have  been^  had  you  thrown 
yourself  on  his  generosity,  and  revealed  the  truth  ;  or  had 
you  concealed  it  and  accepted  him,  you  would  have  failed 
at  the  altar's  foot." 


2G0  woman's     FRIENDSHir 

"  But  if  to  you,  to  Lord  St.  Maur,  my  agony  at  the — 
the  stain  upon  my  Lirth  be  more  imaginary  than  real ;  if 
I  am  not,  as  I  believed,  an  outcast  from  the  sympathy,  the 
feeUngs  of  my  fellow  men  ;  if,  whatever  be  my  birth,  I  can 
never  be  other  than  I  have  been  to  those  who  love  me,  oh ! 
why  might  not  the  truth  have  been  revealed  to  him,  and 
yet  our  happiness  secured  ?" 

It  was  diliicult  to  look  on  that  pleading  face,  to  listen  to 
those  tremulous  words  unmoved  ;  they  told  a  tale  even  thea 
of  hope,  which  the  Countess,  after  her  late  conversation  with 
her  husband,  felt  that  she  dared  not  encourage. 

"  AVere  Francis  Howard  other  than  he  is,  my  Florence, 
this  might  be  ;  but  not,  not  with  him.  He  might  not  draw 
back,  believing  he  had  gone  too  far  ;  but  trust  me,  dearest, 
you  have  better  secured  his  happiness  by  concealing  than 
by  revealing  the  truth.  He  loves  not  as  you  do,  Florence  ; 
if  he  do,  time  will  not  change  him  ;  there  pnay  be  happiness 
still  in  store  for  you  both." 

"  May  he  be  happy  I"  murmured  Florence,  in  a  tone  of 
suoli  submissive  resignation  that  the  Countess  involun- 
tarily drew  her  closer  to  her,  and  fondly  kissed  her  pallid 
brow. 

**  Yet  still  have  you  ties  to  bind  you  to  life,  my 
Florence,"  she  said  ;  "  still  have  you  memories  of  the  past 
to  prove  you  were  not  saved  in  vain  ;  and  what  v/ere 
Millie's  lot  without  you  ?  Now,  too,  that  you  have  compe- 
tence, nay,  wealth  permitting  your  every  ambitious  wish 
foT  her  to  be  fulfilled.  You  have  still  friends,  dearest, 
friends  to  whom  your  happiness  is  dearer  than  ever.  You 
have  the  recollection  of  a  life  of  virtue  and  of  love  ;  and  in 
securing  the  happiness  of  others,  as  you  have  ever  done,  you 
may  be  laying  up  stores  for  your  own,  wliich,  when  the 
present  darkness  is  mercifully  removed,  will  shine  the  love- 
lier for  the  past  gloom.  Think  but  of  this,  endeavor  but  to 
believe  that  some  good  must  arise  from  this  deep  woe,  or  it 
would  not  have  been  permitted  ;  and  endure  it  nobly,  as 
you  can  and  will.  Your  secret  is  known  but  to  Lord  St 
Maur  an'd  myself ;  and  you  know  that  with  us  it  is  as  if  it 
were  not  You  are  the  Florence  Leslie,  our  Florence, 
A^hich  you  have  ever  been." 

Florence  did  not  reply,  but  all  her  wildness  and  iirpa- 


woman's    friendship.  261 

tience  had  passed  away  ;  and  Lady  St.  Mam  felt  that  her 
tears  were  falling  fast. 

At  that  moment  Lord  St.  Maur  hounded  mto  the  room. 
from  the  halcony  on  v/hich  the  window  opened,  exclaiming, 
"  Ida,  love  !  I  have  brought  you  a  visitor — a  truant,  yet 
one  you  will  be  glad  to  see.  Come  in,  Elliott,  man  ;  what 
do  you  stay  there  for." 

But  his  companion  hesitated;  his  glance  fixed  on, the 
figure  so  gracefully  and  almost  spiritually  brought  forward 
m  the  moon-light. 

'' What  ?  Ronald  Elliott;  my  own  sailor-cousin;  how 
glad  I  am  1"  exclaimed  the  Countess,  springing  up  with 
the  joyousness  and  elasticity  of  a  girl.  And  Florence, 
startled  and  terrified  at  the  idea  of  a  stranger,  hastily 
withdrew. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

RONALD    ELLIOTT. — THE    TRUE    REFUGE. 

Our  readers  will  perhaps  be  less  inclined  to  welcome  a 
stranger  than  was  the  Countess  St.  Maur.  To  her,  how- 
ever, the  new  comer  was  no  stranger,  but  a  near  relative  ; 
and  as  such  we  trust  a  kinder  greeting  will  be  allowed  him 
than  were  he  an  interloper  in  our  narrative,  merely  drag- 
ged in,  at  the  conclusion,  to  serve  our  own  purposes. 

"  Yes  ;  Ronald,  dearest  Ida.  How  can  I  thank  you 
for  this  most  kind  "welcome  ?  Happiness,  adulation,  and 
a  long  list  of  honors  have  not  changed  you  :  the  sound 
of  your  dear  voice  tells  me  that,  though  I  can  scarcely  see 
you,"  replied  the  young  sailor,  pressing  his  lips  to  the  fair 
cheek  which  was  yielded  to  him  as  freely  as  a  sister's,  and 
grasping  her  hands  in  both  his. 

"  Changed  ?  Not  a  whit  I"  replied  her  husband,  laugh- 
ing. "  Ida  St.  Maur  is  as  glad  to  see  you,  as  ever  Ida 
Villiers  was  ;  and  what  is  more,  I  am  not  jealous  ;  so  drop 
your  anchor  here  as  long  as  you  please,  if  the  harborage  be 
good  enough  for  so  renowned  a  personage  as  Captain  Sii 
"Ronald  Elliott,  which  we  must  dub  you  in  future." 


2G2  woman's   fPwIENdship. 

"  Captain,  and  Sir  Ronald  !  Why  you  have  made  rj.j^jiti 
strides  indeed,  cousin  sailor  ;  you  were  but  third  lieutenant, 
I  think,  when  we  last  met." 

"  Hardly  that.  It  is  full  nine  years  since  I  saw  you ; 
but  my  kind  uncle's  influence  helped  me  even  after  we  had 
lost  him,  Ida.  So  I  passed  my  examination  gloriously,  as 
I  think  you  know,  and  then  to  rise  was  easy.'' 

"  What  I  even  to  be  Captain?  I  think  your  own  abilities 
must  have  helped  you  still  more  than  my  dear  father's  in- 
fluence ;  but  I  am  very  angry  with  you,  Honald.  You  have 
not  written  me  a  single  line  the  last  three  years.*' 

"  I  know  it,  my  kind  cousin,  and  deserve  to  loose  an 
epaulette  for  it.  But  we  have  been  from  one  end  of  the 
world  almost  to  the  other  in  that  time  ;  nearly  murdered 
by  some  barbarous  islanders  ;  then  wrecked,  and  for  a  full 
month  thrown  about  on  the  wide  ocean  in  a  little  cockle- 
shell of  a  boat,  which  I  expected  every  hour  Avouid  go  to 
pieces  ;  nearly  starved,  and  made  such  objects  by  the  sun 
and  wind  and  spray,  that  you  never  would  have  known 
me.  Then  we  hailed  land,  and  imagined  anchorage  secure  ; 
when,  behold,  it  Was  but  a  desert  island.  And  though  I 
was  not  quite  Robinson  Crusoe,  having  still  some  faithful 
comrades  with  me,  I  assure  you  Crusoe  himself  could  not 
have  yearned  more  for  the  sight  of  a  ship  than  we  did.  I 
set  all  hands  to  work  to  make  a  craft  fit  for  sea  ;  but 
with  neither  tools  nor  proper  wood  nor  canvass,  imagine  the 
difficulties  of  our  task.  Still  we  would  not  be  thrown 
aback,  and  the  fourteen  months  we  w^^re  there  passed 
quicker  in  their  vain  attempts,  than  had  we  made  none  at 
all.  At  length  we  succeeded  ;  our  craft  was  actually  sea- 
worth}'  We  launched  her,  loaded  her  with  the  roots 
grain,  and  fruit  which  had  been  our  sole  mess  during  oui 
solitude,  and  so  tempted  old  ocean  again.  She  took  u^ 
safely  to  a  Spanish  trader,  who  received  us  on  board,  took 
our  craft  and  tackle  in  tow  as  curious  specimens  of  nauticai 
ingenuity,  and  conveyed  us  to  Brazil.  Thence  we  crowded 
sail  for  old  England,  and  after  storms  and  dangers  innu- 
merable, here  we  are  I  The  Lords  of  the  Admiralty  were 
pleased  to  have  us  before  them,  examined  my  log,  which 
I  have  contrived  to  keep  throughout  all,  gave  all  my  brave 
fellows  a  lift,  (I  had  lost  only  two,)  made  me  a  captain  ; 


263 

and  I  suppose,  from  their  report,  her  Majesty  was  pleased 
to  malie  me  a  baronet  :  why,  I  camiot  imagine,  I  did 
nothing  more  than  every  British  sailor  would  have  done 
under  the  same  circumstances." 

"  But,  with  all  your  toils  and  dangers,  you  are  handsome 
as  ever,  Ronald  ;  somewhat  browner,  and  perhaps  thinnei 
and  taller.     But  I  should  have  known  you  any^vhere." 

"  Now  you  would,  Ida  ;  for  our  primitive  hfe  in  the 
island  gave  us  all  back  our  good  looks,"  replied  the  young 
officer,  who,  as  lights  had  been  brought  in,  now  appeared 
a  frank,  pleasant-looking  man  of  some  six  or  seven  and 
twenty  years  ;  sunburnt,  certainly,  but  as  his  eyes  and 
hair  were  very  dark,  such  marks  of  hard-service  proved  no 
disfigurement. 

"  But  why  did  you  not  write  us,  as  soon  as  you  reached 
Plymouth  ?"  mquired  Lord  St.  Maur. 

"  Because  I  did  not  know  that  you  were  in  England. 
You  were  in  Italy  when  Ida  last  wrote." 

"  And  how  did  you  find  us  out  at  last  ?" 
.  "  Why  first  I  crowded  sail  for  Lord  Edgemere's,  but 
found  he  was  in  Wales  or  Scotland,  or  on  some  such  tack  ; 
then  I  bethought  me  of  Lord  Melford.  And  as  I  was  no 
longer  the  rough  middy,  Uonald  Elliott,  whose  mother  did 
such  a  foolish  thing  as  to  marry  a  poor  lieutenant,  and  her 
brother  Lord  Edgemere  a  still  more  shocking  tiling,  as  to 
forgive  the  runaway  match,  and  receive  her  and  her 
fatherless  boy  into  favor,  but  a  captain  and  a  baronet,  why 
I  thought  they  might  deign  to  speak  to  me  :  so  I  took  them 
by  surprise,  was  received  most  graciously  ;  heard  you  were 
h3re,  and  was  off  again  in  a  twinkling  ;  for  no  harborage  was 
ever  so  safe  and  happy  for  Uonald  Elliot  as  where  his  cou- 
sin Ida  is  to  be  found." 

"  I  thought  sailors  were  too  honest  ever  to  flatter,"  re- 
plied the  Countess,  laughing, 

"  Ida,  you  know  it  to  be  truth  !  It  was  all  through  you 
my  poor  widowed  mother  was  forgiven,  though  you  were 
but  a  girl  of  fourteen.  You  attended  her  long  illness  and 
death,  with  all  the  devotedness  and  care  of  a  daughter — 
gave  me  the  love  of  an  elder  sister — made  every  one  treat 
me  as  your  brother.  Oh,  how  proud  and  cold  you  looked 
and  spoke  if  any  one  dared  look  down  on  me ;  nor  rested 


264  WOMAN    S    FRIENDSHIP. 

lill  my  ardent  wishes  were  fulfilled  and  I  was  a  sailor. 
And  was  this  all  ?  No,  Ida,  no  ;  if  I  have  indeed  attained 
to  steadiness  and  manliness  and  worth,  to  you  I  owe  it  all ; 
your  aflection,  your  example,  your  counsels,  have  made'  me 
what  I  am." 

It  was  impossible  to  doubt  the  sincerity  of  these  blunt 
and  rapid  words.  His  hands  trembled,  his  lip  quivered, 
and  then,  as  if  to  banish  every  trace  of  emotion,  he  laugh- 
ingly inquired  :  "  Who  was  that  graceful  figure  I  saw 
sitting  (like  Niobe,  all  tears)  at  your  feet,  when  St.  Mam- 
hurried  me  so  irreverently  through  the  window?  She 
could  not  have  thrown  herself  into  a  more  becoming  atti 
tude  for  elTect,  particularly  as  the  moonUght  streamed  upon 
her." 

"  Effect  I  poor  girl,  the  last  thing  in  her  mind  at  that 
moment.  She  is  a  young  friend  of  mine,  and  just  at 
present  in  great  affliction.  You  will  probably  see  her  to- 
morrow ;  but  I  warn  you,  you  will  be  disappointed  if  you 
expect  any  thing  remarkable.  She  is  ill  and  in  sorrow,  and 
not  at  all  likely  to  attract  such  a  laughter-loving  person  as 
yourself" 

The  return  of  young  Elliott  was  a  source  of  real  i-e 
joicing  both  to  the  Countess  and  her  husband.  They  had 
lost  all  trace  of  him  so  long,  that  both  had  feared  more 
than  either  liked  to  express.  Florence  had  often  heard 
Lady  St.  Maur  allude  to  her  cousin,  even  during  their  first 
intimacy  at  St.  John's,  as  wishing  she  could  see  him  before 
she  left  England ;  and  she  could  therefore  well  sympathize 
in  the  joy  with  which  her  friend  sought  her  before  retiring 
to  rest,  to  communicate  the  happy  tidings  of  his  miexpected 
return. 

Suflering  as  their  long  conversation  had  been  to  Florence, 
it  was  yet,  as  Lord  St.  Maur  had  predicted — ^productive  of 
good.  Her  mind  gradually  resumed  a  more  healthy  tone. 
Happy  indeed,  how  could  she  be  ?  But  the  morbid 
anguish,  which  turned  every  memory  into  suffering,  sub 
sided.  Although  at  first  shrinking  from  the  task  as  ijii 
crease  of  misery,  she  followed  Lady  St.  Maur's  advice,  ami 
re-read  the  MSS.  And  though  her  tears  fell  fast  and  mi 
restrainedly,  the  heavy  weight  on  mind  and  heart  gave 
way.     She  could  now  feel  the  full  extent  of  love  borne 


WOMAN    S    FlJlENDSHIP  265 

towards  her  by  her  adopted  mother.  In  her  first  perusal 
the  truth  had  burst  upon  her  with  a  shock  and  agony 
which  bewildered  every  faculty.  She  was  only  sensible 
that  she  was  the  child  of  misery  and  shame.  >  Now  she 
read  differently.  Her  adopted  mother's  fond  appeal  seemed 
to  sink  upon  her  heart,  bidding  her  trust  m  God,  and  be- 
lieve that  those  papers  were  indeed  revealed  but  for  good. 
She  guessed  not  wherefore,  and  she  asked  not.  The  strug- 
gle was  dark  and  terrible,  known  only  to  the  Reader  of  all 
hearts ;  but  at  length  that  gentle  spirit  was  enabled  to 
merge  every  individual  feeling  in  the  one  deep,  earnest 
prayer  for  the  happiness  of  one  ! 

"  Let  him  be  happy,  even  if  to  be  so  he  must  forget  me 
and  love  another."  Could  those  voiceless  orisons  have 
found  vent  in  words,  such  would  they  have  been.  I  ask 
but  to  be  the  unknown  instrument  workmg  his  happier 
fate ;  but  if  even  this  be  denied  me — if  our  paths  must 
indeed  be  severed,  and  forever — still,  still,  let  him  be  hap- 
py. And  for  me — oh  I  Father  of  Mercy,  lift  up  this  yearn- 
hig  heart  to  Thee  !" 

There  was  no  wild  enthusiasm  in  her  prayer.  Days, 
nights,  aye,  weeks  had  passed,  ere  her  seared  heart  could 
frame  it  in  sincerity  and  truth,  and  even  in  secret  prayer 
dash  down  all  individual  hope.  It  was  not  that  she  had 
loved  him  with  unreturned  affection.  She  was  not  likely, 
at  such  a  moment,  to  think  with  Lord  St.  Maur,  iiad  she 
known  his  suspicions,  that  Howard  felt  but  a  brother's 
love.  But  she  never  wavered  in  her  unselfish  prayer 
She  roused  every  energy,  by  the  conquest  of  self,  through 
constant  and  benefioial  emplo}Tiient  to  assist  in  its  fulfil- 
ment. She  was  not  one  of  those  who  think  that  prayer, 
'.ven  for  the  subjection  of  feeling,  is  sufiicient  without 
deed.  She  kncAv  she  must  help  herself  as  well  as  pray, 
and  trust  on  the  help  that  to  all,  who  seek,  is  given  from 
on  high.  She  found  support,  too,  in  the  consciousness  of 
her  own  integrity,  a  support  which,  had  Lady  St.  Maur 
sought  to  persuade  her  that  her  mighty  sacrifice  had  been 
imcalled  for,  must  have  been  denied  her ;  and  when  even 
the  sweet  dream  of  his  love  was  loosed  by  his  own  words 
from  the  fibres  of  her  heart,  she  found  that  strength  had 
indeed  been  given  to  act  as  she  had  pi'ayed. 

23 


t66  woman's  friendship 


CHAPTER  XLIV 

I  HE    FAMILY    TOUR. 

Francis  Ho^^ard  did  not  linger  long  in  London  after  Ida 
rejection  by  F'.orence  ;  he  joined  Lord  Edgemere's  family, 
"who  were  then  at  the  Isle  of  Anglesea,  in  a  much  shorter 
time  than  gentlemen  in  his  forlorn  situation  generally  take 
to  recover  their  equilibrium.  He  pondered  again  and 
again  over  the  conduct  of  Florence,  and  also  over  his  own. 
He  certainly  never  had  given  her  any  right  to  suppose  his 
attentions  devoted  mitil  lately,  and,  therefore,  could  have 
no  reason  to  imagine  she  had  ever  shown  such  preference 
for  his  society  as  to  cause  any  present  belief  that  she  had 
treated  him  ill.  He  thought  that  she  certainly  had  not 
seemed  to  dislike  his  society  and  conversation.  "  Dislike  ? 
No  !  But,"  mentally  argued  the  young  politician,  "  there 
is  a  wide  space  between  not  dishking  and  love.  Now  I 
could  not  go  hang  or  drown  myself,  as  I  hear  some  de- 
spairing lovers  talk  of  doing.  Nay,  if  it  were  not  for  very 
awkwardness,  I  should  have  much  preferred  still  lingering 
in  her  mild,  rational  society,  than  seeking  others.  I  wish 
she  could  have  loved  me  :  mine  may  not  have  been  the 
wild  passionate  emotion  of  some  that  I  know ;  but  it  was 
one,  I  think,  which  would  have  made  us  both  happy  could 
she  but  have  loved  me.  I  never  knew  what  female  com- 
panionship and  society  were  till  I  knew  her,  and  I  could 
have  wished  to  secure  them  mine,  could  I  have  made  her 
happy  as  I  hoped  ;  but  may  I  not  still  do  so  ?  or  is  her  re- 
iection  final  ?  Yes — and  I  am  much  mistaken  if  she  do  not 
love  another ;  but  who — who  has  gained  her  affections  ? 
It  is  all  mystery  ;  but  there  was  more  in  her  manner  than 
met  my  eye.  Well,  well,  be  it  so ;  I  trust  when  we  next 
meet;  it  will  be  still  as  the  friends  which  we  have  been." 

Could  Lord  St.  Maur  have  read  his  mental  soliloquy, 
he  certainly  would  have  had  his  suspicions  confirmed. 
Francis  Howard  was  much  too  unselfish  and  noble  a 
person  to  entertain  any  petty  and  unworthy  foehngs,  even 


WOMAN    S     FRIENDSHIP  267 

had  lie  considered  himself  injured  by  his  rejection.  But 
the  above  quiet,  unimpassioned  train  of  thought  was  not 
that  of  a  man  ardent  in  his.  suit.  His  belief,  too,  tliat 
Florence  loved  another,  ably  aided  him  to  conquer  the  de- 
lusion wliich  had  engrossed  him,  and  before  he  had  been  a 
month  with  Lord  Edgemere,  he  felt  himself  once  more  a 
free  man. 

Now,  let  us  not  be  accused  of  making  our  hero  a  very 
uninteresting  and  most  capricious  personage.  Frank  did 
love  Florence  with  most  unselfish  love  ;  esteemed,  admired 
her ;  felt  that  had  Heaven  blessed  him  with  such  a  sister, 
his  lot  would  have  been  happy  as  earth  could  make  it  ;  and 
as  woman  had  never  so  arrested  a  fleeting  thought  before, 
he  imagined  the  feeling  deeper  than  in  reality  it  was ; 
cherished  it,  dwelt  upon  it,  till  he  began  to  think  why 
should  he  repine  that  Heaven  had  denied  him  such  a  sister, 
when  love  might  give  him  such  a  bride  ?  His  rejection  re- 
moved the  delusive  glow  of  fancy,  and  his  feelings  gradually 
subsided  into  their  original  repose. 

It  was  a  merry,  though  a  small  party,  that  he  joined ; 
although  it  so  happened  that  himself  and  Alfred  Melford 
were  the  only  single  men  amongst  them.  Melford  was,  of 
course,  always  the  attache  of  his  fair  betrothed.  Minie 
Leslie  sported  gayly  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  party ; 
sometimes  the  charge  of  the  Earl  himself,  who  was  very 
fond  of  her ;  at  others  the  chosen  companion  of  Lord 
Henry  Yilliers,  whose  wife  was  not  quite  strong  enough 
for  the  long  exploring  rambles  which  he  preferred,  and 
which  Minie  M^as  only  too  happy  to  join  ;  at  others  sharing 
iqyously  the  lively  excursions  of  Viscount  Yilliers,  Lord 
Edgemere's  grandson  and  heir,  a  fine  boy  of  fourteen,  the 
pet  of  the  family.  Except  in  her  tete-a-tete  rambles  with 
Melford,  however.  Lady  Mary  always  considered  and 
treated  Minie  as  her  own  especial  charge,  and  under  her 
fostering  care  and  kindness  the  young  girl  had  overcome 
the  shock  of  her  mother's  death,  and  though  more  often 
shadowed  than  formerly,  her  natural  liveliness  had  almost 
entirely  returned,  and  with  renovated  health,  yet  more 
dazzling  beauty.  Not  the  most  callous  could  have  looked 
at  her  at  any  time  with  indifTerence,  and  more  particularly 
when  returning  glowing  with  health  and  enjoyment,  from 


2G8  woman's   FRiENDSiirr. 

a  ramble,  or  springing  up  the  rocky  hexghts  of  Wales, 
leaving  all  her  companions,  even  the  young  Lord  Villiera 
himself,  far  behind  her ;  pausing,  but  to  look  back  with 
laughing  triumph,  and  seeming  from  her  light,  exquisitely 
graceful  figure,  her  sumiy  ringlets  and  lovely  face,  the  very 
spirit  of  the  scenes  she  loved. 

It  was  not  a  very  unlikely  state  of  things,  therefore, 
that  when  Howard  joined  them,  Miiiie  should  fall  to  his 
especial  care,  particularly  in  those  excursions  taken  ^y  all 
the  party  ;  or  that,  being  mutually  pleased,  they  should 
come  together  tete-a-tete.  Minie  was  scarcely  eighteen, 
and  so  completely  a  child,  that  no  awkwardness  ever 
marked  her  manner.  She  had  not  learned  even  to  suppress 
a  feeling  or  a  sentiment.  Full  of  grateful  devotion  to- 
wards her  friends,  though  she  never  forgot  to  evince  re- 
spect, she  mingled  with,  and  caressed  them  as  a  loving 
child,  wmnmg  the  afiections  of  all,  almost  unconsciously, 
in  return. 

At  first  she  was  delighted  that  Frank  had  joined  them 
because  she  could  talk  to  him,  and  he  could  tell  her  of 
Florence — her  own  dear  Florence  I  And  then  her  rambles 
suddenly  became  more  delightful  than  they  had  ever 
been  ;  and  next,  she  felt  strangely  disinclined  for  any 
other  companion,  or,  at  least,  they  fell  far  short  in  agree- 
ableness  to  Mr.  Howard ;  and  then,  her  solitary  walks 
became  endowed  with  a  sort  of  delicious  dreamy  trance, 
which  she  had  never  experienced  before  ;  and  still  the 
simple  girl  guessed  not,  dreamed  not,  the  nature  of  the 
emotion  which  Avas  engrossing  her  ;  she  only  knew  that 
happy  as  she  had  been  before,  she  was  infinitely  happier 
now  ;  innocent  as  she  was,  she  could  no  more  have  con- 
cealed the  sudden  glittering  of  the  dark  blue  eye,  the 
flushing  of  the  delicate  cheek,  which  greeted  Frank  when- 
ever he  appeared,  however  often  in  the  day,  than  she 
could  have  defined  why  this  should  be.  Lady  Mary,  too, 
happy  in  her  own  engagement,  and  finding  sufficient  em- 
ployment in  being  with  or  thinking  of  Melford,  did  not 
notice  these  little  equivocal  signs,  or  if  she  did,  perhaps 
secretly  enjoyed  the  idea  of  her  lovely  protegee's  capti- 
vating one  of  the  handsomest  and  most  engaging  young 
men  of  the  riiy.     However  this  might  be,  she   resolved 


woman's  frienlship.  269 

not  to  breathe  one  word  to  aAvaken  Miiiie  to  the  true  state 
of  her  feelings  :  it  would  either  create  Ibolish  ideas  in  the 
child's  head,  or  make  her  restless  and  unhappy  by  striving 
to  conceal,  if  she  could  not  conquer,  her  feelings.  No  ; 
things  should  take  their  own  course,  and  she  only  hoped 
Frank  would  finally  be  caught ;  it  would  be  such  rare 
diversion  to  see  so  reserved  a  sort  of  personage,  when 
women  were  in  the  question,  fairly  in  love.  The  other 
members  of  the  family,  accustomed  to  regard  Minie  as 
quite  a  child,  either  did  not  observe,  or  thought  nothing 
of,  her  evident  pleasure  in  his  society  and  conversation. 
So  small  a  share  of  kindness  and  notice  could  delight  her, 
taat  it  was  no  wonder  she  found  pleasure  in  receiving  it 
from  him.  She  was  considered  too  young,  too  innocent 
for  any  deeper  feeling. 

For  Francis  himself,  he  at  first  supposed  it  was  on  ac- 
count of  his  regard  for  Florence  that  he  felt  so  perfectly 
satisfied  with  the  beautiful  charge  assigned  him,  that  he 
was  never  weary  of  Ustening  to  Minie' s  conversation  of 
her  cherished  sister,  and  many  a  tale  of  Florence's 
devotedness  in  their  days  of  privation  and  suffering  did 
those  young  lips  pour  forth  with  a  natural  eloquence  Avhich 
reached  the  inmost  heart.  He  hstened  enraptured,  be- 
lieving it  all  for  Florence's  sake  ;  yet  in  his  solitary  hours 
it  was  the  sylph-like  form,  the  lovely  face,  the  silver-toned 
voice  of  Minie  which  haunted  him  sleeping  or  waking, 
not  the  subject  of  her  tale  ;  and  then  he  met  again  the 
beaming  eye  and  flushed  cheek,  and  his  heart  whispered, 
were  not  these  signs  proofs  of  no  indifference  on  her  part  ? 
He  watched  her  closely  ;  he  could  not  define  it,  but  there 
certainly  was  a  sUght  difference  between  her  manner  to 
hira,  and  that  to  others.  Once  he  had  come  upon  her 
suddenly,  as  she  was  attempting  to  sketch  an  old  tree 
before  the  party  set  off,  and  her  hand  so  trembled  as  quite 
to  prevent  the  completion  of  her  task,  and  they  were 
called  to  the  carriage  with  it  still  unfinished.  And  yet 
she  looked  so  happy.  Then,  during  the  anxious  period  ol 
Florence's  illness,  though  neither  Minie  nor  Frank  knew 
its  extent  or  imagined  its  cause,  it  was  a  common  source 
of  interest  to  both,  and  Minie  seemed  to  look  up  to  him  bo 
confidingly  not  only  for  the  first  intelligence  from  the  post, 

23* 


270  woman's    FRIENDSIIIl 

but  for  sympathy  also.  And  whereas  she  was  at  iirst  so 
anxious  on  account  of  her  sister,  that  even  her  beloved 
music  lost  its  balm,  it  was  Howard's  persuasion  which 
again  called  it  forth,  making  that  sweet  voice  once  more 
lose  itself  in  the  gushing  song,  as  he  hung  over  her  en- 
tranced. Was  it  the  illness  of  pocr  Florence,  or  Minie's 
tearful  eye  and  pale  cheek,  Avhich  so  engrossed  him  ?  If 
the  first,  it  was  strange  that  he  did  not  think  more  of  alle- 
viating Florence's  malady,  than  how  to  soothe  and  comfort 
her  sister's  sorrow  on  account  of  it.  Strange  that  he  «ould 
rest  so  easily  satisfied  of  her  well-doing  under  the  care  of 
Sir  Chailes  Brashleigh  and  Lady  St.  Maur,  and  linger  so 
continually  by  the  side  of  Minie,  using  all  the  eloquence 
of  words  ard  manner,  and  bringing  out  all  the  treasures  of 
his  mind  to  while  her  into  cheerfulness  again. 

There  is  no  balm  so  effectual  for  the  lingering  soreness 
of  rejection  as  the  consciousness  of  being  beloved  by 
another.  Men  are  sometimes  accused  of  marrying  in 
pique,  and  not  for  love  ;  yet,  perhaps,  all  such  unione  are 
not  unhappy.  The  heart  cannot  rest  desolate,  and  the 
faintest  sign  of  interest,  of  undesignedly  revealed  afiec 
tion,  is  hailed  at  such  moments  as  filling  up  the  void 
within,  exciting  another  sympathy,  and  recalling  the  self- 
esteem  which  sinks  for  the  moment  beneath  the  pang  of 
unreturned  affection.  Now,  we  know  Frank  did  not  really 
and  passionately  love  Florence,  though  he  fancied  he  did ; 
but  yet  he  was  disappointed,  and  his  whole  soul  pmea 
and  yearned  for  female  sympathy  and  love  ;  and  once, 
when  the  thought  did  cross  his  mind  that  Minie  Avas  not 
indifferent  to  him,  that  she  could,  if  she  did  not  already, 
love  him,  the  idea  was  fraught  with  such  ecstacy  that  he 
absolutely  started.  Had  he  so  soon  forgotten  Florence  ? 
he  asked  himself,  angry  at  his  own  fickleness.  No  ;  liis 
regard  for  her  seemed  not  a  whit  abated  ;  yet  if  it  were 
love  he  now  felt,  he  had  never  loved  Florence,  for  the 
emotions  were  as  distinct  as  possible.  He  was  perplexed 
and  annoyed  at  himself;  yet  to  behold  Minie's  exquisite 
beauty,  so  to  revel  in  her  thrilling  voice  as  to  feel  its 
echo  in  his  inmost  soul,  to  look  in  those  soft  eyes  when 
they  glanced  up  so  timidly  yet  so  uinocently  at  his,  even 
to  feel  that  she  clung  to  him  for  support  and  guidance  in 


woman's  friendship.  271 

«ome  of  their  precarious  rambles  ;  all  this  created  such 
new,  yet  such  exquisite  sensations,  that  by  the  time  they 
reached  Scotland,  he  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  he 
must  be  in  love  ;  and  if  he  were,  he  certauily  had  never 
been  in  love  before. 

He  satisfied  himself  at  length  that  the  difference  must 
have  originated  in  the  fact,  that  by  Minie  he  was  beloved, 
and  by  Florence  he  was  not.  How  little  did  he  imagine, 
that  the  controlled  and  subdued  exterior  of  the  latter  was 
but  the  proof  of  her  love  for  him  ;  that  all  deep  emotions, 
with  her,  were  under  such  powerful  restraint,  that  they 
could  not  break  their  bonds.  Hers  was  woman's  love, 
deep,  still,  omnipotent ;  Minie's  was  the  first  fresh  spring 
of  GIE-LHOOD,  as  truc,  perchance  as  fond,  but  spurning 
ahke  restraint  and  concealment,  because  its  source  was 
hidden  from  herself  Florence  could  resign  that  love,  if 
to  do  so  might  secure  the  happiness  of  its  object,  better 
than  to  manifest  it  ;  she  could  resign  it  and  yet  live,  ■ 
feeling  that 

"  The  heart  may  break,  yet  brokenly  live  on." 

Minie,  had  her  love  been  severed  from  its  object,  might, 
perhaps,  have  buried  it  in  her  heart  awhile  ;  but  then  she 
would  have  drooped  and  died. 

Still  Howard  watched  well ;  still  was  the  idea  that  he 
was  bebved,  too  precious,  too  consoUng  to  be  risked  for  an 
avowal.  Perhaps,  after  all,  he  was  deceived  ;  and  Minie's 
engaging  artlessr<^ss  and  innocent  confidence  were  only 
fancied  love.  It  was  strange  that  in  all  these  incongruities 
of  feehng,  the  thought  of  his  father  never  intruded  ;  Minie 
was  very  nearly  the  same  in  point  of  fortune  as  her  sister 
had  been  when  he  first  knew  her,  and  Lord  Glenvylle's 
consent  just  as  unlikely  to  be  gained ;  yet  Frank  never 
thought  about  that,  thus  confirming  Lord  St.  Maur's  behef, 
that  had  he  really  loved  Florence,  he  would  never  have 
been  so  long  quiet  on  the  subject. 


272  woman's    FRIENDSmP 

CHAPTER  XLV. 

AN    ACCIDENT    AND    ITS    EFFECT. 

Four,  five  months  had  passed  since  Lord  Edgen  ere  i 
family  commenced  their  tour.  "Wales,  the  Lakes,  the 
Borders — by  Scott's  immortalizing  pen  made  famous— 
Melrose,  Abhotsford,  and  Auld  Reekie  herself,  had  all 
been  visited  ;  and  never,  certainly,  had  tourist  been  more 
alive  to  the  beauties  of  nature,  or  more  inclined  to  enjoy 
the  delights  and  love,  the  disagreeables  of  travelHng,  than 
this  happy  party.  An  unlooked-for  rencontre  greatly 
heightened  Lady  Mary's  and  Melford's  enjoyment.  At 
the  house  of  a  friend  in  Edinburgh,  they  happened  to  meet 
the  identical  Mrs.  Major  Hardwicke,  who,  when  Flora 
Leslie,  had  occasioned  Florence  so  much  misery.  That 
her  marriage  had  been  productive  of  as  much  happiness 
as  is  generally  found  in  elopements  (z.  e.,  none  at  all)  was 
not  sufficient  for  Melford.  He  had  resolved  that  she 
should  know  that  her  nefarious  plans  had  all  failed  in 
their  intended  effect  of  estranging  Florence  from  Lady 
St.  Maur,  and  smart  under  the  knowledge.  He  succeeded 
to  his  heart's  content  :  although  fairly  puzzled  as  to 
whether  or  not  he  had  identified  her  with  the  Flora  Leslie 
of  whom  he  spoke,  she  vidnced  under  his  words.  He  had 
commenced  the  subject  so  naturally,  and  led  her  to  listen 
with  such  professional  skill,  (be  it  remembered  he  was  a 
barrister),  that  there  was  no  retreat,  no  possibility  of 
changing  the  subject.  And  both  Melford  and  Lady  Mary, 
with  pardonable  satisfaction,  rejoiced  in  the  pain  and  terror 
lest  she  should  betray  her  own  identity,  which  the  former's 
quiet  conversation  caused.  She  never  met  them  again  ; 
but  Florence  was  fully  avenged  ;  far  more  so,  indeed,  than 
her  own  forgiving  spirit  would  have  either  permitted  or 
-approved. 

The  middle  of  December  was  to  find  Lord  Edgemere'a 
party  at  home  again,  in  their  fine  old  baronial  mansion, 
within  a  seven-mile  ride  of  Amersley  ;  and  it  was  about 
the   commencement  of  November   that  thev  -wp^-p   com- 


woman's  fkienj)ship.  273 

fortabiy  ensconced  for  a  week  or  ten  days  in  a  pictuiesque 
little  hotel  on  the  banks  of  Loch  Lomond,  enjoying  the  full 
beauty  of  the  autumnal  tints  in  the  magnificent  scenerj- 
around  them. 

"  What  has  become  of  Frank  this  morning  ?"  inquired 
Lady  Mary,  entering  the  luncheon-room  one  day,  followed 
by  her  faithful  cavalier,  Alfred  Melford,  with  whom  the 
morning  had  been  passed  in  a  tete-a-tete  ramble. 

"  Nobody  seems  to  know.  Minie,  you-  are  generally  ac- 
quainted with  his  movements.  What  has  become  of  him — 
can  you  tell?" 

"  Indeed,  you  make  me  a  person  of  infinitely  more  im- 
portance than  I  am,  my  dear  Lady  Mary,"  she  innocently 
replied,  perfectly  unconscious  that  the  question  was  so 
marked ;"  I  only  know  he  said  something  last  night  about 
explormg  some  rocky  fall  or  other,  too  dangerous  for  the 
soberly  inclined,  and  even  for  me  ;  and  too  adventurous  for 
you  and  Mr.  Melford,  as  it  needed  rather  more  caution  than 
you  would  just  at  present  be  inclined  to  take,"  she  added, 
with  a  mischievous  smile. 

"  He  is  very  impertinent — and  so  are  you.  Miss  Minie, 
for  repeating  and  enjoying  his  pertness,"  repUed  Lady  Mary, 
threateningly  holding  up  her  hand. 

"  By  the  way,  so  he  did;  I  remember  it  now,"  exclaimed 
Melford  at  the  same  moment. 

"  How  came  you  to  be  so  wonderfully  oblivious,  my 
learned  counsellor  ?"  said  Lord  Edgemere,  laughing. 

"  Eyes,  ears,  and  mind,  were  all  so  pleasurably  employed 
in  the  present  tense,  that  memory  had  no  space  for  the 
past,  my  lord,  though  it  only  extended  to  last  night," 
replied  the  young  man,  laughing  also.  "  But  he  ought  to 
be  at  home  now,  for  he  promised  not  to  be  later  than 
two." 

"  I  only  hope  his  love  of  adventure  will  not  end  in  an 
accident.  Those  brakes  and  hollows  which  he  resolved  to 
explore  are  full  of  hidden  dangers.  If  either  his  horse's  or 
his  own  foot  slip,  I  would  not  answer  for  the  consequences," 
quietly  observed  Lord  Henry  Villiers. 

"  Oh,  never  fear  for  him,"  answered  Melford,  "he  has 
more  lives  than  a  cat,  or  he  would  have  been  dead  long 
ago.     I  warned  him   how   dreadfully  slippery  the   heavy 


274  woman's   friendship. 

if 

rains  had  made  the  unfrequented  roads,  but  be  only  laughed 
at  me." 

"  Minie  !  have  you  been  out  this  morning  ?  You  have 
either  taken  too  long  a  walk,  or  not  been  out  at  all,  for  you 
are  as  white  as  your  collar.  Mamma,  why  did  you  not 
keep  her  in  better  order  ?"  said  Lady  Mary,  fixing  a  very 
meaning  look  on  the  young  girl's  face,  whose  paleness  was 
instantly  lost  in  a  glowing  blush  ;  and  she  answered  hur- 
riedly, "  Indeed  I  have  been  out.  Algernon  took  me  a 
lovely  walk,  though  not  as  long  a  one  as  usual." 

"  It  might  have  been  much  longer,"  gayly  rejoined  the 
young  Viscount ;  "  but  the  keen  air  from  the  lake  had 
created  in  me  such  a  giant  appetite,  that  Minie  took  pity 
on  me,  and  returned  sooner  than  we  otherwise  should 
have  done.  Aunt  Mary,  have  the  kindness  to  give  me 
some  of  that  fine  Scotch  dish,  name  unpronounceable, 
which  you  have  near  you.  You  and  Mr.  Melford  may 
contrive  to  keep  your  hunger  within  bounds  ;  as  I  have 
heard,  love  never  thinks  of  eating.  Now  I  have  no  such 
pleasant  succedaneum,  so  must  e'en  look  to  solids  for  recre- 
ation. Grandmamma,  is  there  any  chance  of  my  dying 
of  decline  produced  from  starvation  ?  You  were  sadly 
afraid  for  me  before  we  began  to  travel.     What  do  you  say, 


now 


"  I  thank  God  my  fears  are  groundless,  my  dear  boy," 
replied  Lady  Edgemere,  with  emotion,  for  the  early  death 
of  her  eldest  son  ever  made  her  tremble  for  his  heir. 

"  Why,  what  in  the  world  has  come  to  Wilham  ?"  con- 
tinued the  uoy.  springing  up  from  his  substantial  repast ; 
"  look  how  he  is  flying  down  the  garden,  as  if  a  set  of 
hornds  were  at  his  heels.  Well,  what  is  it.  Will  ?  Scared 
by  all  the  bogies  of  the  lake?"  he  added,  laughing,  as  the 
parlor  door  burst  open,  and  the  person  of  whom  he  spoke 
appeared,  looking  white  with  terror. 

"  My  master — my  poor  master  I"  were  the  first  words 
intelligible.  "  They  say  his  horse  was  seen  to  leap  the 
precipice  yonder — dashed  to  pieces  with  the  fall.  Oh ' 
what  has  become  of  my  dear,  dear  master  ?" 

"He  is  here  you  faithful  idiot!"  replied  a  well  known 
voice,  some  yards  behind  him  ;.  and  before  the  exclama- 
lions  of  Jb-orror  "ihe  sudden  start  occasioned  by  William's 


woman's  friendship.  275 

terrible  information  had  subsided,  Frank  Howard  stood  in 
the  midst  of  the  group,  withoat  a  soil  or  stain,  or  any 
visible  mark  of  danger.  "  Before  you  frighten  all  my 
friends  another  time,  my  good  fellow,  be  sure  that  your 
master  is  dashed  to  pieces,  as  well  as  his  Lorse.  Poor 
fellow  I  that  is  loss  enough  for  me,  but  not  quite  sufficient 
to  terrify  every  one  thus.  Do  not  shake  so,  man,  and 
stare  at  me,  as  if  you  saw  my  ghost  instead  of  flesh  and 
blood.  I  tell  you  I  am  safe  and  well,  even  unhurt ;  in 
just  sufficient  danger  to  bid  me  thank  God  it  was  no 
worse.  Now  go  ;  there's  a  good  fellow.  I  am  afraiJ. 
you  have  frightened  others  as  much  as  yourself,"  he 
added  turning  away  to  hide  his  emotion,  as  his  servant 
©aught  his  hand  and  sobbed  over  it  like  a  child,  and  then 
hastily  retired,  trying  to  beg  pardon.  The  rehef  was  as 
sudden  as  the  shock,  and  the  nerves  of  the  luncheon-party 
had,  ui  consequence,  for  the  most  part,  recovered  their 
equilibrium  before  Howard  had  done  speaking ;  but  on 
one  amongst  them  the  effect  of  the  shock  was  rather  more 
severe.  Minie  Leslie  had  sprung  up  with  a  faint  sup- 
pressed cry  on  William's  first  words,  which  on  the 
sudden  somid  of  his  master's  voice  was  followed  by  what, 
in  such  a  child  as  herself,  appeared  most  strange  and 
incomprehensible.  She  dropped  down  where  she  stood 
so  perfectly  lifeless,  that  she  might  have  been  seriously 
hurt  had  not  her  head  fallen  on  the  ample  folds  of  Lady 
Edgemere's  velvet  dress.  Nor  was  any  member  of  the 
party  aware  of  the  occurrence,  so  entirely  were  their 
faculties  absorbed  in  Frank's  appearance  ;  until  an  ex- 
clctfnation,  in  which  the  words,  "  Minie  I  good  Heaven — is 
this  for  me  ?  my  precious  Minie  I"  miheard  by  the  greater 
number,  but  remembered  some  hours  after  with  peculiar 
pleasure  by  Lady  Mary,  recalled  the  attention  of  all  to 
the  fainting  girl. 

A  scene  of  confusion  of  course  followed.  Disregarding 
all  the  questions,  whether  ejaculated  or  expressed,  which 
were  poured  upon  him,  Frank  bounded  from  one  side  of 
the  room  to  the  other,  and  ni  a  second  had  raised  Minie  in 
his  arms. 

"  Bring  her  into  this  room,  Frank  :  there  is  more  air ; 
sind  she  will  recover  the  sooner  out  of  all  this  confusion,*' 


276  woman's  friendship. 

was  Lady  Mary's  wise  direction,  leading  the  way  into  an 
adjoining  apartment  which  was  vacant,  and  pointing  to  a 
couch  on  which  he  placed  his  still  senseless  charge : 
hanging  over  her,  however,  as  very  loath  to  leave  her. 

•'  Now  go,  my  very  good  friend ;  you  have  been  the  meana 
of  frightening  her  to  death.  Let  that  satisfy  ycu,  and  do 
not  attempt  more.  I  can  better  restore  her  to  life  than  you 
can." 

"  I  cannot  be  so  unfeeling  as  to  leave  her  m  this  state, 
Lady  Mary,"  he  exclaimed. 

"Yes  you  can,  very  easily.  You  will  have  enough  tc  do 
to  answer  all  the  multitudinous  questions  as  to  the  cause 
of  "VYilham's  incomprehensible  fright.  Do  go,  and  keep 
all  the  folks  away.  This  poor  child  will  recover  sooner 
when  alone  with  me  ;  there  is  a  streak  of  color  coming 
mto  her  face  already.  After  all,  it  may  have  nothing  to 
do  with  the  fright.  She  was  looking  very  pale  before, 
and  the  roorai  was  very  close,  and  the  luncheon  over 
savoury,"  she  added,  looking  in  Howard's  anxious  face, 
with  the  most  provoking  expression  imaginable.  But  if 
she  wished  thus  to  lower  his  amour  propre,  she  most 
certainly  did  not  succeed :  however  presumptuous  the 
idea,  that  fainting  confirmed  the  long-indulged  hope  that 
he  was  beloved  ;  and  the  thought  was  so  entrancmg  that 
he  could  scarcely  restrain  himself  from  folding  the  sense- 
less Minie  closer  and  closer  to  him,  and  being  actually 
daring  enough  to  press  his  lips  to  her  pale  cheek.  But 
Lady  Mary,  provoking  Lady  Mary,  was  present,  and  he 
would  not  make  himself  such  a  fool ;  so  after  lingering 
till  quite  satisfied  that  she  really  was  recovering,  he  was 
obliged  to  obey  the  impatient  command,  to  go,  and  keep 
every  one  away,  as  Minie  must  be  left  quiet. 

He  went,  and  Lady  Mary,  carefully  closing  the  door 
returned,  with  some  peculiarly  pleasant  feelings,  to  her 
task  of  restoring  the  now  quickly  reviving  animation. 
After  a  few  minutes,  Minie  started  up,  looking  round  her 
bewildered,  and  then  exclaimed — "What  has  happened, 
Lady  Mary  ?  Who  brought  nie  here  ?  and  why  does  my 
head  feel  so  light  and  strange  ?" 

"  To  your  first  and  last  question,  my  dear,  one  answcT 
will  suifice.      You  have  been  silly  enough  to  famt;    and 


woman's   fp^iendship.  277 

Buch  being  the  case,  it  is  no  very  great  wonder  you  shouldt 
feel  somewhat  Hght-headed.  To  your  second  query,  "Who 
brought  you  here  ?  I  answer  even  that  honorable  gentle- 
man, Francis  Howard,  as  you  were  somewhat  too  heavy,  in 
your  senseless  state,  for  my  arms  to  support." 

"  Mr.  Howard !"  repeated  Minie,  her  cheek  flushing 
crimson ;  "  faint  !  I  never  did  such  a  thing  in  my 
life." 

"  Yery  likely  not,  my  dear,"  replied  Laly  Mar>.  laugh- 
ing ;  '•'  but  there  is  no  reason  that  you  never  should.  TVhy 
you  did  such  a  silly  thing  indeed,  I  cannot  tell ;  it  could 
scarcely  have  been  the  fright  about  Frank,  for  the  othei 
day  yo  A  saw  a  man  thrown  off  his  horse  and  nearly  killed, 
and  you  scarcely  even  changed  color,  but  sprang  out  of  the 
carriage  to  give  all  the  help  that  you  could." 

"  But,  Frank — Mr.  Howard,  I  mean — is  not — not — 
hurt  ? — has  not  been — " 

"  Killed  ?  No,  my  dear ;  being  in  very  substantial  pre- 
servation ;  as  I  told  you,  he  conveyed  you  here  himself 
That  he  has  lost  his  horse,  dashed  over  aome  precipice,  is 
all  I  can  understand  of  the  strange  tale.  Now  don't  faint 
again  for  the  fate  of  a  horse  ;  that  would  be  too  ridiculous. 
I  do  not  mean  to  scold  you,  silly  Min  ;  yeu  could  not  help 
fainting,  so  you  need  not  cry  about  it,  like  a  simpleton. 
Come,  try  and  go  to  sleep.  Fainting  fits  always  punish 
those  who  really  have  them,  by  compelling  them  to  silence 
and  solitude  for  some  hours." 

Minie  had  sunk  back  when  Lady  Mary  roentioned  the 
fate  of  the  horse,  pale  as  before,  the  large  tears  slowly 
oozing  from  her  closed  eyelids,  and  it  was  with  difficulty 
she  restrained  a  strong  shudder,  as  she  pictured  what  might 
have  been  the  fate  of  its  master.  Lady  Mary  affection- 
ately kissed  her,  told  her  to  be  a  good  child,  and  she  would 
stay  by  her.  ♦ 

"  But  Mr.  Melford,  Lady  Mary,  why  should  I  keep  you 
from  him  ?" 

*'  He  must  do  without  me,  my  dear  ;  I  have  honored 
him  all  the  morning.  Unless  you  like  Frank's  nursing 
better  than  mine ;  if  so,  I  will  go  away,  and  send 
him  ?" 

"  No,  no,  pray  do  not,  dearest  Lady  Mary  ;  what  wouW 
24 


278  woman's  FRiENDsnir. 

he  think  of  me  ?  what  must  he  think  of  me  now  ;  and  he 
used  to  praise  my  stroni^  nerves.  How  could  I  be  so  fooUsh 
as  to  be  so  frightened  I" 

"  Nerer  mind  what  anybody  thinks,  my  dear,  but  obey 
me  and  lie  still.  Depend  upon  it  as  Frank  caused  the  fright, 
he  will  not  quarrel  with  your  want  of  nerve." 

Minie  did  not  reappear  till  dinner,  and  then  pitying  her 
cjonfusion  and  shyness.  Lady  Mary  had  made  it  a  point  of 
entreating  that  no  notice  might  be  taken  of  her  lingering 
paleness.  Howard  led  her  in  to  dinner,  placed  himself 
beside  her,  and  paid  her  all  sorts  of  little  attentions,  so  as 
quite  to  remove  the  idea  that  she  had  sunk  in  his  estimation 
from  her  miusual  weakness.  The  accident  was  freely  dis- 
cussed, but  the  feeling  eloquence  with  which  Howard  alluded 
to  his  almost  miraculous  preservation  brought  the  bright 
drops  anew  into  her  eyes.  However,  it  was  no  heaviness  of 
spirits  which  produced  them,  for  before  the  evening  closed 
she  was  as  lively  as  usual,  seated  at  Lord  Edgemere's  feet, 
singing  song  after  song  in  her  own  rich,  thrilling  voice  ; 
thus  proving,  Lady  Mary  laughingly  declared,  that  though 
her  fainting  looked  very  like  it,  she  was  no  fine  lady  aftei 
all ;  she  had  not  been  languishing  and  sentimental  half 
long  enough. 


CHAPTER  XLVL 

A  MORNING  WALK. TRUE  LOVE. — DIFFICULTIES. 

Francis  Howard  slept  very  little  that  night.  Dreams 
of  Scotch  precipices  and  dying  horses,  blue  lakes  and 
^airy-like  nymphs,  mingled  very  incongruously  in  his 
Klumbers,  until  at  last  they  all  gave  place  to  one  fair 
image,  and  one  resolute  thought  which  outlived  his 
sleeping  visions,  and  so  actuated  his  waking  that  he 
Ktarted  from  his  couch  determined  to  be  undecided  no 
longe^',  but  in  actual  words  demand  if  he  might  be  blessed 
or  not  ;  and  an  opportunity  offered  itself  so  invitingly, 
that  it  seemed  sent  by  his  good  angel,  on  purpose  to  bring 
him  to  the  point.     Lord  Edgemere's  party  were  all  fond 


woman's  friendship.  279 

of  walking  before  breakfast ;  so  that  meal  generally  took 
place  at  a  very  late  hour:  and  just  as  Howard  had  com- 
pleted his  toilette — rather  a  longer  task  than  usual,  from 
his  pacings  to  and  fro  in  his  chamber — ^he  saw  Minie 
LesHe  and  Algernon  Villiers  bound  along  the  garden,  arm 
ui  arm. 

"  Now,  then,"  he  thought.  "  But  what  can  I  do  with 
Algernon?"  followed  instantly.  "Oh'  my  fowling-piece; 
he  will  be  off  to  try  its  metal  directly  he  sees  it ;"  and  he 
Bet  forth  gun  in  hand.  The  young  Viscount  hailed  him 
with  a  shout  of  delight. 

"  What  I  going  to  shoot  so  early,  Mr.  Howard  ?  Oh  !  do 
let  me  have  one  shot  before  you  go." 

"  And  destroy  Miss  Leslie's  recovered  nerves  on  the  in- 
stant ?  'No,  my  good  fellow,  if  you  want  my  gun,  leave  me 
the  care  of  your  fair  companion  ;  that  is,  if  she  will  accept 
the  exchange." 

"  Oh  !  you  will  take  much  better  care  of  her.  JNTow  I 
have  smelt  gunpowder  ;  you  had  better  let  me  go." 

"  You  may  shoot  here  if  you  like  ;  I  am  not  at  all  afraid," 
che  answered,  laughing.  "  I  am  not  so  silly  as  to  be  fright- 
ened at  a  gun." 

"No,  no  I  I  will  not  hear  of  it;"  hastily  interposed 
Frank,  keeping  firm  hold  of  his  gun.  "  An  accident  may 
happen  in  a  moment.  Promise  me  to  find  WUliam,  and  tell 
him  to  go  with  you,  and  you  shall  have  the  gun,  but  not 
otherwise." 

"  I  promise  faithfully,  most  inexorable  mentor.  Why, 
grandmamma  herself  could  not  take  more  care  of  me.  I 
am  off;  a  pleasant  walk  to  you  both,"  and  he  bounded 
away. 

Howard  watched  till  hi.*  servant  joined  him,  then  satis- 
fied as  to  his  safety,  "  A  pretty  cavalier,  so  to  desert  his  lady 
fair,"  he  began,  as  he  put  her  arm  in  his,  according  to  cus- 
tom, and  they  turned  in  the  direction  of  the  lake,  "  Does 
he  deserve  mercy  ?  He  ought  to  be  expunged  from  the  list 
of  all  good  knights  and  t?:ue." 

"  Nay.  Mr.  Howard,  you  ought  not  to  be  so  severe  upon 
him  ;  for  were  not  you  the  tempter  ?"   she  replied,  archly. 

"  Indeed  I  was,  awd  more  so  than  you  imagine.  I  turned 
tempter  on   purpose  to  get  rid  of  him,  and  become  sole 


280  woman's  friendship. 

guardian  of  your  ramble.  My  egregious  folly  j^esterday  lost 
me  the  pleasure  of  your  society  almost  all  day  ;  so  I  deter- 
mined to  make  up  for  it  this  morning.  "VYill  you  forgive  my 
Bending  off  Algernon  ?  and  can  you  trust  me  with  youi 
safety  for  an  hour  or  so — tete-a-tete  ?'' 

"  I  will  do  both,  very  willingly,"  she  answered,  with 
perfect  artlessness.  "  For  the  one  needs  no  forgiveness 
at  all ;  and  for  the  other,  you  have  always  been  so  very 
careful  of  my  safety,  I  cannot  think  why  I  should  not  trust 
you  now." 

"  But  will  you  do  more,  Minie?  I  cannot  call  you  Misa 
Leslie,  for  the  life  of  me." 

"  And  why  should  you,  Mr.  Howard  ?  You  never  have  : 
and,  indeed,  I  am  not  Miss  Leslie.  I  do  not  like  to  be  so 
titled ;  it  sounds  so  formal,  or  else  as  if  you  were  displeased 
with  me." 

"  Displeased  I"  exclaimed  Frank,  Avitli  most  extra- 
ordinary impetuosity  ;  "  who  could  ever  be  displeased  with 
you  ?" 

"  Not  many  have  been,  Mr.  Howard ;  for  I  was  always 
the  petted  child  of  my  own  family.  But  those  who  so 
loved  and  cared  for  me  are  all  gone  but  one,  and  I  must 
not  expect  to  go  through  life  so  fondly  cared  for  now." 
The  bright  smile  vanished,  and  her  beautiful  eyes  swelled 
with  large  tears.  She  bent  down  her  head,  but  the  sudden 
quivering  of  her  voice  betrayed  them,  and  Frank  found  it 
impossible  to  resist  pressing  the  hand  which  rested  on 
his  arm  closer  to  him.  A  very  brief  interval,  and  she 
looked  up  with  a  smile  radiant  as  before.  "  But  it  seems 
as  if  I  were  always  to  be  spoilt  and  fondled  ;  for  my  friends 
are  still  so  kind.  Lady  Mary,  and  Lord  and  Lady  Edge- 
mere,  and  even  you,  Mr.  Howard,  do  all  you  can  to  make 
me,  oh,  so  happy  I" 

*'  I,  Minie !  would  to  heaven  that  I  could  make  you 
happy,  happier  than  any  person  else  !"  She  looked  at 
him,  actually  startled  at  his  violence,  and  met  in  return  a 
glance  which,  though  she  could  not  understand  it,  made 
her  withdraw  hers  on  the  instant,  and  blush  deeply. 
"  But  why  not  call  me  Frank,  if  I  may  call  you  Minie  ?" 
he  said,  striving  to  make  his  heart  beat  less  quickly,  foi 
the  nearer  he  approached  the  words  he  most  desired  to 


woman's  friendship.  28^ 

Bay,  the  more  difficulty  there  seemed  in  saying  them.  "  I 
dislike  formality  as  much  as  you  do." 

"  Oh,  but  it  is  so  different  ;  I  am  simple  Minie  Leslie  to 
every  one,  but  I  could  not  call  Lady  Mary  '  Mary,'  or  Mr. 
Melford  '  Alfred  ;'  and  I  have  kno^vn  you  less  time  than 
either,  and  I  suppose  that  is  the  reason  why  I  feel  as  if  I 
could  never  call  you  Frank." 

But  timidly  as  it  was  pronounced,  the  name  had  never 
sounded  so  thrillingly  sweet  in  Howard's  ears  as  at  that 
moment. 

"  Never  !  nay,  nay,  you  shall  not  say  so,  Minie  ;  indeed 
you  must  call  me  Frank,  and  very  often.  But  I  frighten 
you  with  my  violence.  You  are  still  weak  from  yesterdaj^'s 
alarm,  unhappy  as  I  was  to  cause  it." 

"  Indeed,  I  am  not,  Mr.  Howard.  You  must  not  let  me 
lose  my  character  for  courage  because  I  was  so  foolish.  I 
do  not  know  how  it  was,  but  I  could  not  help  it." 

"  And  I  would  not  have  had  it  otherwise  for  the  universe, 
if — ^if  I  may  hope  from  it  what  would  make  me  the  happiest 
man  alive.  Minie,  dearest  Minie,  I  wanted  to  tell  you  a 
long  tale,  to  beseech  you  to  listen,  to  bear  with  me,  but  I 
can  only  ask  you  one  thing  now.  You  said  just  now  that  I 
too  made  you  happy  ;  tell  me,  I  implore  you,  can  you-  will 
you  trust  me  always  to  make  you  happy  ?  "Will  you  let  me 
be  to  you  all  you  have  lost,  and  let  me  love,  cherish,  bless 
you,  even  more  than  they  did  ?  dearest,  will  you,  can  you 
love  me  ?" 

It  was  no  fancy  now,  for  Mmie  did  tremble  50  violently 
that  Howard  was  compelled  to  put  liis  arm  round  her,  or 
she  must  have  fallen  ;  but  never  did  a  more  genuine  look 
of  bewilderment  struggling  with  happiness,  meet  liis  earnest 
gaze  than  hers  at  that  moment. 

"Me!  you  can  not  mean  it.  Oh  I  no,  no!"  were  the 
only  words  he  heard ;  and  though  her  face  had  been 
covered  with  her  hands  directly  after  that  one  bewildered 
gaze,  either  th«  power  or  the  will  failed  her  to  break  from 
his  support. 

"  Mean  it  ?  indeed,  indeed  I  do  !  I  would  not,  I  dared 
not  play  with  such  a  heart  as  y(3urs.  My  own  Minie  ! 
listen  to  me,  for  you  shall  know  the  truth,  even  though  it 
lose  me  the  happiness  I  crave.     I  joined  Lord  Edgemere'i 

24* 


282  woman's  friendship. 

party,  wounded,  depressed,  miserable.  I  had  thought  I 
loved,  and  that  the  object  of  my  fancied  love  was  not 
indiflerent  to  me  ;  I  had  associated  with  her  so  long  on 
terras  of  friendly  intimacy,  felt  for  her  such  strong  regard, 
that  when  I  saw  her  in  distress  I  fancied  that  regard 
stronger  than  it  was,  dwelt  upon  it,  encouraged  it,  thought 
upon  it,  the  more  perhaps  because  her  manner  became 
colder  as  mine  warmed.  I  proposed,  and  was  rejected ; 
feelingly,  kindly,  most  kindly,  but  so  decidedly  that  I 
believed  the  heart  I  then  wished  to  gain  had  been  already 
given  to  another ;  and  the  delusion  thus  broken  convinced 
me  I  had  been  deceived,  not  in  her,  but  in  myself.  How 
completely  deceived  I  knew  not  till  I  associated  in  all  the 
happiness  of  a  home  with  you  ;  and  I  felt  I  had  never 
known  love  till  then,  that  it  was  but  a  brother's  love, 
heightened  by  imagination,  which  I  had  felt  before.  Yet 
i  let  weeks,  months  pass,  to  be  sure  of  myself,  to  feel  that 
I  could  offer  you  a  heart  so  entirely  your  own  that  it  con- 
tained not  even  a  memory  to  alloy  its  truth.  I  sought  yor- 
first,  because  it  seemed  a  sad  pleasure  to  speak  of  Florence  ; 
then  gradually  I  felt  it  was  your  voice,  your  smile,  your 
gentleness  which  bound  me  to  your  side — that  you  were 
rapidly  filfing  up  the  void  which  the  fancy  that  I  was 
never  to  be  beloved  had  opened  in  my  heart — you  were 
spreading  such  joy  around  my  path,  and  in  my  soul,  that 
I  felt,  could  1  but  wm  your  love,  I  should  never  feel  des- 
pondenc}  or  lonehness  again.  Minie,  dearest  Minie,  vdll 
you  return  this  love,  the  first  in  truth,  though  it  appears 
the  second  ?  "Will  you  trust,  believe  that  no  passion 
lingers  for  other  than  your  gentle  self?  Can  you  trust 
your  happiness  with  me,  and  believe  me,  that  dear  as  it  ha? 
been  to  father,  mother,  brother,  all  who  have  loved  you,  i/" 
will  be  more  precious  still  to  me  ?" 

He  had  spoken  rapidly,  and  with  strong  emotion  ;  but 
his  arm  was  still  encircling  Minie,  and  she  had  not  re 
moved  it.  There  were  large  tears  coursing  down  her  cheek 
but  her  eyes  had  been  gradually  raised  to  his,  first  in  won- 
derment, and  then  in  such  artless  confidence  that  he  scarcelj' 
needed  words. 

"  And  can  you,  who  have  once  loved  Florence,  sought 


woman's   friendship.  283 

Florence  for  your  own,  in  every  truth,  so  love  rae'l"  she 
asked,  so  pleadingly,  so  simply,  that  her  lover  was  irre- 
sistibly compelled  to  press  his  lips  to  hers  ;  and  frightened 
as  she  was  at  the  action,  the  fear  only  made  her  uncon- 
sciously cling  closer  to  him.  "Oh I  Mr.  Howard,  how 
can  I  be  to  you  what  she  would  have  been — the  com- 
panion, the  friend,  all  that  your  wife  should  be  ?  Simple 
as  I  am,  child  as  they  tell  me  I  still  am,  how  is  it,  how  cap 
it  be  possible  you  should  love  me  ?" 

"Mime,  you  are  no  child  Truth,  guilelessness,  sweet- 
ness ;  you  have  all  these,  all  that  makes  your  sex  worthy 
of  love,  and  fitted  to  retain  it.  If  I  were  to  leave  you  for 
years,  and  go  mingle  with  hundreds  of  fashion's  daughters, 
I  should  turn  to  you  still  for  all  that  would  make  me 
happy,  all  that  would  make  my  home.  Dearest,  loveliest ; 
you  are  lonely  only  in  your  own  artless  mind,  simple  only 
in  your  too  humble  opinion  of  yourself;  child-like,  aye, 
in  all  that  can  make  childhood  lovely,  and  rivet  love  so 
strongly  that  not  even  death  could  tear  it  from  me.  The 
proudest  noble  in  the  land  might  envy  me  your  love,  if 
indeed,  indeed,  I  may  hope  that  I  plead  not  in  vain.  You 
will  accept  a  heart,  though  it  was  once  proffered  to  another 
— you  will  love  me  ?  Speak,  dearest  ;  but  one  little  word 
— you  will,  you  do  love  me  I" 

She  could  not  speak  that  word,  little  as  it  was ;  but  she 
lifted  up  her  sweet  face,  fixed  its  clear,  truthful  :^rbs  for 
one  brief  minute  fully  upon  his,  and  that  lovely  head  was 
bent  down,  and  the  rich  mantling  blushes  hidden  on  his 
bosom. 

"  I  am  satisfied  I  Bless  you  my  OAvn  beloved,"  whis- 
{:ered  the  enraptured  Howard  ;  and  then  he  added,  "  And 
you  can  trust  me,  Minie  ?  you  will  trust  me  that  I  have 
loved,  and  do  love  but  you?" 

"That  you  do  love  but  me.  Yes;-  or  you  would  not 
Ihus  speak,"  she  answered,  unhesitatingly.  "  That  you 
have  never  loved  before — I  know  not  how  you  could  have 
associated  intimately  with  Florence,  and  yet  not  love  her. 
But  even  if  you  had,  with  her  rejection  caused  you  to  con- 
quer that  affection,  do  you,  can  you  think,  because  you  had 
once  loved  her,  I — I  could — I  must  love  you  less  ?     Oh  . 


2S4  woman's  friendship. 

Mr.  Howard,  you  do  not  know  how  I  love  and  rcverentxj 
my  sister,  or  you  M'ould  not  think  thus.  Would — would 
that  I  were  as  worthy  to  be  your  wife  as  she  is  I" 

"And  will  she  not  tell  me  that  you  are,  sweet  one  ?" 
replied  her  lover ;  "  that  there  never  was  or  will  be  one 
more  deserving  of  love  than  Minie  ;  I  have  heard  her  say 
it  often,  though  neither  she  nor  I  knew  what  that  loved 
being  would  become  to  me.  But  you  have  twice  caUed 
me  Mr.  Howard,  dearest.     Will  you  not  say  F?vank  now  ?" 

"Indeed,  indeed,  I  do  not  know  that  I  can  even  now," 
she  said  playfully.  "  But  I  will  try  to  feel  that  you  have 
been,  and  still  will  be  Frank  to  me,"  she  added,  after  a 
brief  pause,  and  with  an  artless  timidity,  perfectly  irre- 
sistible to  her  betrothed,  who  ui  this  interview  certainly 
proved  that  Lord  St.  Maur  knew  him  better  than  he  did 
himself ;  for  not  a  thought,  not  a  shadow  found  entrance 
to  dim  that  one  sweet  hour  of  love  first  told.  A  character 
peculiarly  alive  to  domestic  ties,  to  be  clung  to,  to  feel 
that  one  being  in  the  whole  world  was  dependent  upon 
him  ;  it  was  no  common  bliss  to  find  all  these  in  one, 
truthful,  imiocent,  and  lovely,  as  Minie  LesUe ;  and 
Howard  was  fairly  carried  out  of  himself.  Do  not  blame 
him,  reader  ;  Lord  St.  Maur  was  right — he  had  never 
loved  before. 

Great  was  the  astonishment  of  both  Frank  and  Minie, 
when  at  length  remembering  they  had  not  breakfasted,  they 
returned  to  the  house,  and  found  the  breakfast  parlor  de- 
serted by  all  but  Lady  Mary  and  Alfred  Melford,  who  had 
waited  for  the  loiterers.  Much  amusement  their  conscious 
confusion  of  course  elicited,  but  Frank  cleverly  contrived 
to  turn  the  stream  of  ridicule  upon  himself  so  as  to  per- 
mit Minie  to  eat  what  breakfast  she  could  in  comparitive 
comfort ;  the  laughing  light  in  her  deep  blue  eyes,  the 
varying  flushes  on  her  cheek,  betraying  a  tale  of  happiness, 
however,  which  no  satire  could  alloy.  She  retreated  to  hei 
own  room  after  breakfast,  and  there  Lady  Marj'  followed 
her. 

**  You  will  never  do  for  a  fine  lady,  Minie,"  she  said  on 
entering.  "  Here  have  you  been  up  early,  and  have  taken 
a  walk,  fasting,  long  enough  to  tire  an  elephant.  You 
naughty  child ;  jokes  apart,  you  ought  to  have  had  more 


WOMAN    S    FRIENDSHIP.  286 

care  of  yourself  after  your  illness  yesterday  ;  and,  in  serious 
earnest,  as  you  have  been  intrusted  to  my  care,  I  must  ask 
you  where  you  have  been  ?" 

*'  In  serious  earnest,  dear  Lady  Mary,  I  can  read  in  your 
eyes,  kind  though  they  look,  that  you  think  I  have  forgotten 
propriety  in  remaining  out  so  long,  and  indeed,  indeed,  it 
would  have  been  very  v/rong  if  I  had  known  how  \ong  it 
was,  ii' — but  why  speak  so  now,"  she  added,  breaking  off 
abruptly,  and  throwing  herself  into  her  friend's  arms.  ''  Oh, 
Lady  Mary,  I  am  so  happy,  so  very,  very  happy,  and  it  is 
all  owing  to  you  ;  for  had  I  not  been  with  you,  I  should 
never  have  known  him,  and  he  Vv^ould  never  have  known 
me.     Oh,  tell  me  it  is  no  dream  I" 

And  Lady  Mary,  truly  and  thoroughly  delighted,  did 
assure  her  that  it  was  not  only  very  possible,  but  perfectly 
true;  that  she  had  .seen  it  a  very  long  time;  and 
that  nothing  in  the  w:^irld  could  please  her  more 
than  that  he  should  have  come  to  the  point,  and  that 
Minie  was  happy.  Time  flew  in  such  discussion,  and 
Lady  Mary  only  left  her  to  the  delightful  task  of  writing 
to  Florence.  Florence  !  could  it  be  possible,  she  who 
had  associated  so  lon»g  and  intimately  Mdth  Howard, 
had  received  his  attentions,  even  the  offer  of  his  hand, 
and  yet  rejected  him  ?  Minie  could  not  understand  it. 
Had  the  sisters  been  together  during  the  time  of 
Howard's  delusion,  Florence  could  scarcely  have  con- 
cealed from  Minie  that  her  fancy,  if  not  her  feelings,  had 
been  captivated ;  but  in  the  brief  intervals  that  Florence 
was  at  home,  his  name  was  seldom  more  than  casually 
mentioned.  The  more  Minie  thought  on  this  subject,  the 
more  puzzled  she  became,  until  the  mystery  seemed 
solved  by  the  recollections  of  Frank's  fancy  that  Flo- 
rence loved  another.  Whom  she  could  have  loved 
in  preference  to  Howard,  Minie  could  not  imagin? ;  her 
only  wish  was,  that  her  sister  could  be  as  happy  as 
herself,  and  she  poured  forth  her  whole  heart  in  glowing 
words 

Howard,  meanwhile,  had  made  his  engagement  known 
to  Lord  Edgemere  and  his  family,  receiving  their 
warmest  congratulations  in  return.  The  Earl  alone 
looked  grave  :  *'  You  have  acted  with  your  usual   honor 


28G  woman's   friendship. 

Frank,"  he  said  ;  "  but  one  person  you  seem  to  have  for* 
gotten — your  lather." 

The  young  man  started.  He  had  forgotten,  if  not 
quite  the  existence  of  his  father,  certainly  his  pecuUar 
prejudices. 

"  He  surely  can  not,  will  not,  condemn  his  only  son  to 
misery  for  paltry  gold  I"  he  exclaimed.  "He  has  been 
kind  in  his  own  way  to  me.  Surely  he  will  not  deny  me 
this,  when  I  shall  one  day  have  thousands ;  and  my  pres- 
ent allowance  would,  with  a  very  little  increase,  support 
us  both." 

*'  Not  quite  in  the  style  which  is  due  to  your  wife, 
Frank  ;  though  it  might  perhaps  more  than  satisfy  yourself 
and  Minie.  Remember,  you  are  still  very  young  ;  httle 
more  than  two-and-twenty,  I  believe.  Jjo  not  make  your 
engagement  public  till  you  have  spoken  with  your  father." 

"  And  depend  upon  his  caprice  for  my  happiness,  and 
that  of  Minie,  which  is  infinitely  dearei  !  Lord  Edgemere, 
how  can  I  do  this  ? ' ' 

*'  What  do  you  mean  to  do,  my  young  friend  ?  Marry 
without  even  the  compliment  of  telling  him  your  intentions  ? ' ' 

"  No,  no ;  of  course  not ;  but  if  I  ask  consent,  I  must 
abide  by  the  decision." 

"  Which  you  fear  will  be  against  your  wishes,  by  your 
hesitation  to  ask.  Depend  upon  it,  Frank,  Minie  Leshe 
has  too  fine  a  spirit,  gentle  as  she  seems,  to  wed  you, 
if  she  is  to  be  any  cause  of  contention  between  you  and 
your  only  parent.  I  wish  you  happy  from  my  very  heart, 
but  I  fear  you  have  at  present  some  difficulties  in  the  way 
of  being  so.  I  tell  you  honestly,  had  I  even  thought  of 
your  joining  us,  Minie,  sweet  girl  as  she  is,  should  not 
have  t-eei  of  our  party.  I  love  her  too  well  to  expose  her 
wilfully  to  danger  ;  but  when  you  came,  I  could  not  send 
her  away,  or  bid  you  decamp,  though  I  have  been  in  no 
little  anxiety  ever  since." 

"  Never  mind  it,  my  dear  lord,"  replied  Howard,  stop- 
ping his  hasty  walk  across  the  room  to  face  his  friend,  and 
laugh  heartily  at  the  perplexity  marked  in  the  Earl's 
features.  "  I  am  not  a  man  to  be  daunted  with  difficulties, 
and  such  as  these  I  will  overcome.  There  is  a  boundary 
^0  filial  duty  as  well  as  to  parental  author  ty  ;  and  when 


woman's  friendship.  287 

the  only  objection  to  Minie  Leslie  is,  that  she  has  no  por- 
tion, I  will  not  let  that  come  between  us  and  our  happiness. 
My  father  has  surely  not  lost  all  sense  of  honor,  of  feehng, 
and  of  generosity ;  he  will  not  be  deaf  to  my  appeal,  and 
we  shall  be  happy  after  all.  So,  for  Heaven's  sake,  my 
lord,  banish  that  grave  face  ;  it  does  not  accord  with  my 
light  heart  at  all." 

"I  hope  you  may  be  happy,  Frank  ;  but  I  wish  you  had 
been  charmed  with  the  heiress,  Florence,  instead  of  her 
portionless  though  lovely  sister,"  answered  the  Earl,  half 
laughing,  in  spite  of  himself;  for  Frank's  gaycty  was  in- 
fectious. 

"  For  sham.e,  my  lord  ;  you  have  growni  money-loving 
and  calculating  as  a  worldling  :  I  will  disown  your  friend- 
ship," he  rejoined,  adding,  as  the  Earl  left  the  room, 
"  Florence  I  no ;  I  could  never,  never  have  loved  Flo- 
rence, that  is  quite  clear.  Now,  had  she  accepted  me,  I 
might  have  found  it  out  too  late,  and  been  either  an  un- 
happy, or,  by  drawing  back,  a  dishonored  man.  I  wish 
she  were  my  sister  ;  and  she  shall  be,  and  then  I  may  love 
and  reverence  her  still.  Engagement  secret  I  Perhaps  he 
is  right — to  all  but  Lord  and  Lady  St.  Maur  ;  for  the  first 
is  Minie's  guardian,  and  the  latter  will  think  me  a — a 
capricious  fool,  not  knowing  my  own  mind,  so  the  soonei 
she  knows  it  the  better." 


CHAPTER  XLVn. 

AI:L  FOR  THE  BEST,  AS  THE  EWD   WILL  PROVE. 

"  Well,  Ida,  what  say  you  now  ?  Penetrative  as  you 
are,  I  have  the  triumph  in  this  instance,"  said  Lord  St 
Maur,  two  or  three  days  after  the  event  of  our  last  chapter, 
and  holding  up  a  letter  triumphantly  before  her.  "  I  seni 
Frank's  letter  to  you,  that  I  might  not  tv^itness  your  defeat." 

"  And  yet  you  cannot  restrain  your  triumph,  Edmund  ! 
a  novel  mode  of  sparing  my  feelings.  However  I  am  too 
provoked   and   disappointed   to  resent  it.      If  I  had   but 


288  woman's    friendship. 

Frank  near  us,  what  a  lecture  would  I  give  him  for  hia 
caprice  and  inconstancy  I  He  writes  as  if  he  knew  it  too, 
yet  ventures  to  excuse  himself" 

"  I  wonder  he  did  that,  for  men  in  love  seldom  think  of 
excusing  them-selvcs.  After  all,  you  are  very  severe,  to 
charge  him  with  caprice.  What  could  the  poor  fellow  do, 
rejected  as  he  was  so  decidedly  ?" 

"  He  ought  to  have  seen  there  was  something  more  in 
Florence  than  she  revealed." 

"  And  so  he  did,  for  he  conquered  his  feelings  at  first, 
under  the  impression  that  Florence  rejected  him  because 
she  loved  another." 

"  Impossible." 

"  Yet  perfectly  true.  E,eaa  vvhat  he  says,"  and  he  gave 
her  his  own  letter. 

She  read  it,  then  said  sorrowfully,  "  My  poor,  poor  Flo- 
rence, would  there  had  been  the  same  delusion  on  your 
part  as  on  his.  Yet,  if  she  had  accepted  him,  I  wonder  if 
this  would  have  been." 

*'  Hather  a  difficult  question.  I  imagine  not ;  for  I  be- 
lieve it  is  the  consciousness  of  beitig  loved  which  has  so 
worked  on  Frank ;  and  had  he  knoAvn  that  this  was  also 
the  case  with  Florence,  his  delusion  might  have  continued, 
till  it  became  too  truly  love  to  waver  or  to  change.  Y'et, 
perhaps,  of  the  two,  Minie  is  more  suited  to  him." 

"  Do  not  say  so,  Edmund  ;  I  will* not  hear  it.  She  is  a 
fascinating  creature,  doubtless,  but  has  not  the  high  char- 
acter of  Florence." 

"  And  that  is  the  very  reason.  Were  Howard  five  oi 
six  years  older,  Florence  would  be  better  suited  for  his 
wife  ;  but,  as  it  is,  I  still  say  he  reverences  more  than  he 
loves  her.  Sorrow  and  heavy  cares  have  made  her  older 
than  her  years.  Howard's  peculiar  disposition  will  be  hap- 
pier with  a  wife  full  of  life,  animation,  and  child-like  sim- 
plicity, hke  Minie,  than  with  her  sister's  higher  tone  of 
character.  Minie' s  influence  will  remove  the  precocious 
gravity,  which  his  uncomfortable  home  has  engendered, 
and  make  him  som©»  years  younger." 

*'  And  would  not  Florence  ?" 

"  Hardly.      Have   you  seen  Florence   since  nost-time  ? 


woman's  .FRIENDSHIP.  289 

f^Utf  has  letters,  and  of  course  one  from  Minie  :  how  will  she 
bear  it  ?" 

"•  Nobly.  I  do  believe  that  the  idea  of  his  happmesa 
will,  after  a  brief  period  of  bitterness,  enable  her  to  meet 
it  calmly  ;  she  is  so  persuaded  now  that  it  was  right  to  act 
as  she  did,  that  I  trust  and  pray  that  her  unselfish  devoted- 
ness  will  bear  her  up,  and  be  its  own  reward.  I  confesi 
I  shrink  from  seeing  her ;  I  dread  the  anguish  of  that  pale 
(ace  infinitely  more  than  words." 

The  Countess  was  spared  the  interview.  On  approach- 
ing her  friend's  room  she  encountered  Ferrers,  with  A 
packet  in  her  hand ;  it  consisted  of  two  letters,  the  en 
velope  containing  a  few  tremulous,  scarcely  legible  )ines, 
from  Florence. 


"  You  are  no  doubt  aware  of  the  contents  of  these 
letters,  my  dear  friend,"  she  wrote  ;  "but  if  you  are  not — 
and  indeed  at  all  events,  read  them,  and  give  me  permission 
to  spend  this  one  day  alone,  I  can  see  no  one,  not  even  you  ; 
for  kindness  and  sympathy  would  utterly  unnerve  me  for 
the  task  before  me.  Do  not  fear  for  me  :  I  have  prayed 
for  this,  that  he  might  be  happy  ;  that  I  might  have  the 
power  of  furthering  that  happiness  ;  and  both  are  granted 
me.  Ought  I  not  to  be  content  ?  I  will  be  with  you  as 
usual  to-morrow.     Pray  for  me. 

Florence." 


Ladj  St.  Maur  dia  grant  her  request ;  for  though  hei 
heart  yearned  towards  her,  she  felt  it  was  wiser  as  she 
had  herself  decided.  She  opened  the  letters  sent  for  her 
perusal.  Frank's  was  eloquent  and  manly ;  he  alluded 
slightly  to  his  feelings  on  quitting  her,  then  to  those  which 
had  led  to  his  choosing  the  society  of  Minie  ;  the  gradual 
effect  of  that  exquisite  beauty,  both  of  face  and  character, 
which  Florence  had  so  often  described,  upon  his  heart, 
yearning  as  it  was  to  be  beloved  ;  and  how,  when  he  found 
that  he  was  in  truth  the  object  of  that  young  heart's 
first  preference,  he  had  felt  that  with  her  he  might  bo 
happy. 

'<  You  refused  me  that  which  I  craved,"  he  contiaued ; 
25 


j^JO  woman's  friendship. 

•*  tha,t  which,  had  it  been  gi anted,  hallowed  by  your  love, 
must  have  made  me  happy  even  as  I  am  now,  refused  it  sc 
decidedly  that  I  might  not  even  hope  ;  for  I  felt,  suffering 
as  it  was  then  so  to  feel,  that  the  heart  I  sought  was  the 
property  of  another.  Florence  !  I  appeal  to  you  now  for 
the  gentle  being  who  possesses  all  your  traits  of  excellence 
in  addition  to  her  own  ;  and,  joy  of  all  joys,  she  loves  me  ' 
Give  me  the  happiness  of  calhng  you  my  sister  ;  for  aa 
such,  like  my  own  Minie,  I  shall  reverence  and  love  you 
Grant  me  the  gift  of  your  sweet  sister,  the  blessing  of  youl 
sjTupathy,  and  would,  oh  would  to  heaven,  that  our  united 
love  could  give  you  the  happiness  which  you  will  bestow 
on  us." 

Had  Florence  rejected  Howard  simply  because  she  did 
not  love  him,  this  letter  would  only  have  excited  pleasur- 
able sensations.  Franlc  wrote  solely  because  his  regard 
for  Florence  was  such  that  he  felt  it  would  increase  his 
happiness  to  receive  it  so  far  from  her  hand.  He  had 
never  suspected  even  for  a  single  minute,  that  there  ex- 
isted any  other  cause  for  his  rejection  than  that  her  affec- 
tions were  pre-engaged  ;  and  he  feared,  from  her  mamier, 
unhappily.  Florence  read  this  belief,  in  the  whole  tone 
and  spirit  of  his  letter  ;  and  the  poor  girl  blessed  God  for 
his  delusion. 

From  that  day's  agony  we  shall  not  attempt  to  lift  the 
veil.  No  doubt  there  will  be  many  who  will  think  that 
Florence  had  no  need  to  make  the  sacrifice,  and  therefore 
deserved  all  she  suffered  ;  but  to  those  who  have  no  belief 
in  the  sacred  nature  of  those  impulses  that  the  voice  of 
God  sometimes  speaks  within  us,  we  do  not  write.  Minie's 
letter  was  indeed  the  very  embodying  of  joy  ;  had  it  alluded 
but  TO  her  own  feelings,  Florence  might  have  read  it  calm 
ly  ;  bu^,  there  were  passages  such  as  these — 

"  And  this  noble  being  had  not  the  power  to  rivet  your 
affections,  dearest  Florence,  though  he  sought  them  ;  and 
I  feel,  as  if  with  your  higher,  nobler,  qualities,  you  would, 
you  must  have  suited  him  better  than  your  simple  sister  ; 
yet  he  loves  me,  I  k7ioiv  he  does,  all  undeserving  as  I  am. 
He  tells  me  my  affection  soothed  the  pain  which  your  re- 
jection caused,  and  that  I  can  make  his  happiness.  Oh, 
what  unutterable  joy  !     How  could    you    have  associated 


woman's  friendship.  291 

with  him  sj  long,  so  intimately,  and  yet  not  love  him  ?  It 
can  only  be  that,  from  yom-  manner  he  fancies  that  you  love 
another.  Oh,  if  it  should  be  so — and,  unhajipily,  my  own 
darling  sister,  my  very  joy  seems  to  reproach  me — ^how 
can  I  be  happy  when  you  are  in  sorrow  ?  And  yet,  yet 
there  is  a  glowing  light  around  me,  a  strange  elasticity 
upon  me,  which  I  cannot  define.  I  can  only  know,  only 
feel,  that  this  is  deeper,  dearer  bUss  than  I  have  ever 
felt  before  I" 

Could  such  passages  be  read  unmoved  ?  She  looked 
back  on  her  interview  with  Howard,  and  wondered  how  it 
had  been — how  she  could  possibly  so  have  spoken,  so 
appeared  as  completely  to  delude.  It  seemed  as  if  some 
fate  or  destiay  (why  should  we  use  such  words  ?)  some 
divine  power  had  been  at  work  around  them  all,  making 
circumstances  as  they  then  were.  To  her,  all  the  period, 
from  her  discovery  of  the  secret  papers  to  her  ilhiess,  was 
a  blank,  peopled  only  by  undefined  spectres  of  embodied 
pain.  What  she  had  said  to  Howard  was  so  completely 
obliterated  that  not  even  a  word  would  return.  Had  he 
really  even  loved  her,  or  was  it  all  a  dream  ?  But  why 
should  she  feel  bitterness  ?  Could  she  regret  aught 
which  could  assure  his  happiness,  even  "at  the  cost  of 
deeper  suffering  to  herself?  No  I  and  in  those  hou^-s  of 
agonized  struggle,  she  thought  of  things  which  the  ex- 
cited Howard  had  forgotten,  and  before  that  day  closed, 
the  high-minded  woman  had  resolved  on  a  plan  which 
would  remove  all  those  objections  to  their  union,  that  she 
too  truly  anticipated  from  Lord  Glenvylle's  character  mvst 
arise. 

Florence  appeared  in  the  parlor,  and  officiated  at  the 
breakfast-table  as  usual  the  next  morning,  though  her 
whole  countenance  bore  such  vivid  traces  of  sufiering 
that  Sir  Bonald  Elliott  could  do  nothing  but  gaze  and 
commiserate  imagining  it  a  return  of  the  bodily  ailing  to 
which  his  cousin  had  told  him  she  was  then  subject.  She 
joined  in  the  general  conversation,  and  smiled  away  all 
Sir  Ronald's  fears  and  regrets,  and  seemed  resolved,  by 
neither  Avord,  sign,  nor  look,  to  betray  what  she  had 
endured.  Of  the  two.  Lady  St.  Maur  Avas  much  more 
silent  than  Florence  ;  zhe  regarded  her  with  astonishment 


292  WOMAN    y     FRIENDSHIP. 

BO  ininglcd  with  veneration,  that  she  could  not  speak  on 
mdiHerent  subjects ;  she  recalled  the  lively,  happy  being 
of  St.  John's,  Avhose  very  nature  appeared  as  if  it  must  be 
crushed  by  the  first  heavj'  blow,  that  her  spirits  were  too 
elastic  to  endure,  and  that  the  blow  would  siiaj:),  not  be7id. 
Yet  what  had  she  become  ?  To  give  her  sympathy  words 
were  impossible ;  but  when  alone  with  Florence,  she 
could  not  resist  clasping  those  cold  hands  in  both  hers, 
and  pressing  a  long,  long  kiss  upon  that  colorless  cheek, 
whispering  in  intense  emotion,  "  My  noble  Florence,  God 
in  mercy  give  you  peace  ;  ycu  have  my  prayers."  And 
Florence's  aching  head  sank  for  a  brief  interval  on  her 
bosom,  as  if  to  thank  her  for  that  blessed  meed  of  sorrow, — 
silent  sympathy  ;  but  composure  soon  I'eturned. 

Two  or  three  days  afterwards,  Florence  mentioned  that 
her  estate  of  Woodlands  being  now  vacant,  she  should 
like  to  visit  it,  and  see  if  it  could  be  made  a  desirable 
residence  :  as  she  wished  her  sister  to  have  a  home  suited 
to  her  future  prospects.  Her  consent  and  sympathy  had, 
of  course,  been  written  to  Minie,  including  a  message  to 
Howard  ;  for  write  to  him  she  could  not. 

Lady  St.  Maur  thought  the  exertion  too  much  for  her, 
but  yielded  at'  length  to  Florence's  assurance  that  exer- 
tion was  much  more  likely  to  do  her  good  than  harm. 
She  hoped  not  to  be  absent  more  than  a  month  or  six 
weeks  at  farthest.  Ferrers  received  orders  for  the  ne- 
cessary preparations,  and  within  the  week  Lord  St.  Maui 
himself  accompanied  her  to  her  estate.  He  was  just  the 
kind  but  unobtrusive  friend  she  needed  ;  feeling  deeply 
for  ner,  yet  never  in  any  jarrmg  manner  proving  that  he 
did  so.  He  gave  her  the  advantage  of  his  advice  and 
taste,  and  when  he  left  her,  which  he  did  after  ten  days' 
Bojourn,  assured  his  wife  she  need  feel  no  mieasiness  for 
Florence  ;  he  was  certain  that  her  spirit  would  carry  her 
through  it  all. 

"  Till  Minie  and  Frank  are  happy,"  was  the  reply , 
"  and  then  God  in  his  infinite  mercy  alone  can  save  her 
from  sinking  to  the  grave.  She  is  under  excitement  now  ; 
wait  til]  that  is  over  ere  we  can  pronounce  updn  hei 
strength." 

Lady  St.  Maur  was  right;  Florence  was  under  excito 


woman's   friendship.  293 

ment ;  slie  herself  knew  not  how  powerfully.  She  kne\? 
her  individual  lot  was,  and  must  be  for  some  time,  that  of 
suffering  ;  and,  therefore,  steadfastly  turning  from  all  weak- 
ening reflection,  gave  up  her  whole  being  to  the  hope  and 
endeavor  to  Fscure  the  happiness  of  those  she  loved. 
She  entered  mto  the  minutest  particular  of  furnishing, 
arranging,  and  housekeeping,  which  needed  to  begin  from 
the  very  beginning.  She  interested  herself  in  all  those 
little  things  which  some  women,  during  her  heavy  trial, 
would  have  shrunk  from,  as  heightening  beyond  all  en- 
durance the  one  absorbing  agony,  by  pricks  as  v^f  pins  and 
thorns. 

j^either  Watson  nor  Ferrers,  nor  the  old  housekeeper  cf 
Woodlands,  ever  spoke  of  their  young  lady  but  with  praise 
and  admiration.  Ferrers  indeed,  from  the  fact  of  her 
sudden  illness,  and  the  words  which  escaped  from  its 
delirium,  might  have  suspected  there  was  more  to  cause 
ner  delicate  health  than  met  the  eye  ;  but  she  was  not  one 
to  speak  her  surmises  :  and  when  a  sweetly-toned  voice 
and  gentle  smile  ever  marked  the  smallest  intercourse 
with  her  domestics  ;  when  she  suggested,  or  thankfully 
accepted  suggestion,  for  improvements  both  in  the  house 
and  grounds,  and  so  cheerfully  entered  into  every  minute 
detail,  how  could  even  more  penetrating  persons  than  old 
Watson  and  Mrs,  Bulling  imagine  more  than  they  saw  ? 
Ill  in  health,  how  could  that  be,  when  she  could  make  any 
exertion  if  it  were  needed,  and  endure  such  fatigue  ? 
Pale  she  was  indeed  ;  her  very  lips  were  seen  to  lose  their 
ruby  tint,  and  her  dark  eyes  to  grow  strangely  dim ;  but 
the  Hampsliire  air  would  bring  back  the  bonny  rose,  and 
they  must  look  out  for  some  one,  a  right  noble  gentleman, 
for  her  to  wed  ;  and  then  her  smiles  would  not  sink  upon 
the  hearty  as  they  sometimes  did,  making  them  feel  sad, 
they  knew  not  why,  but  be  glad  and  cheerful  as  her  voice. 
So,  often  gossiped,  those  who  delighted  in  calling  Miss 
Leslie  mistress  ;  and  when  Sir  Ronald  Elliott  made  his 
appearance  at  Woodlands,  laden,  he  declared,  with  com- 
missions from  the  Countess — else  he  had  not  dared  intrude 
on  Miss  Leslie's  privacy — they  fixed  upon  him  at  once  as 
the  cavalier  they  wanted. 

That  the  gallant  young  sailor  should  make  hirnsel/ 
25* 


294  woman's     FRIENDSi-ZlP. 

friends  amonirst  all  the  tenantry  at  Woodlands  was  not 
very  wonderl'ul,  as  British  sailors  are  generally  greeted 
with  joy  wherever  tliey  come  ;  but  that  he  should  choose 
(o  t^ait  Amcrsley  in  such  a  dull,  damp,  uninviting  season 
as  November,  and  make  a  pilgrimage  to  Woodlands,  for 
literally  nothing  but  his  own  pleasure,  would  have  been 
much  more  extraordinary  to  Florence,  had  not  her  mind 
been  too  pre-occupied  to  think  about  it.  That  her  palo 
face,  from  which  she  imagined  every  trace  of  any  previous 
attraction  must  have  departed,  joined  as  it  was  to  a  manner 
so  spiritless,  a  form  so  faded,  could  have  any  fascination 
for  one  so  buoyant,  so  life-loving  as  the  young  Captain, 
was  a,  circumstance  in  itself  so  wholly  improbable,  a^ 
iiBver  for  one  moment  to  have  entered  her  thoughts.  Yet 
that  face  and  form  had  haunted  Sir  Ronald  from  the  first 
evening  he  had  seen  her  ;  he  saw — nay.  Lady  St.  Maur 
had  told  him — that  she  was  in  deep  affliction  ;  and  he  felt 
an  interest  rising  towards  her  in  a  most  incomprehensible 
manner,  and  became  restless  and  weary.  To  the  amuse- 
ment of  his  relatives,  he  declared  he  would  take  a  run 
down  to  Old  London,  and  call  at  Woodlands,  in  case  he 
could  do  any  thing  for  Miss  Leslie,  in  his  way.  Take 
Woodlands  in  his  way  ?  He  might  know  his  road  across 
the  Atlantic,  Lady  St.  Maur  told  him,  but  certainly  not 
over  England,  if  he  talked  of  going  through  Hampshire 
in  the  straight  road  from  Warwick  to  London.  He  did 
not  care,  go  he  would  ;  Miss  Leslie  must  be  sick  of  hor 
loneliness,  and  he  would  go  and  cheer  her,  and  bring  her 
bacK,  vowing  that  Constance,  though  she  had  a  governess 
all  to  herself,  was  unbearable  without  the  influence  of 
Florence. 

"  Bring  her  back  if  you  can  ;  I  give  you  free  permission  : 
but  whether  your  company,  most  gallant  Captain,  will 
cheer  her  loneliness,  or  Avhether  it  would  be  quite  proper 
that  it  should,  I  will  not  pretend  to  say.  However,  if  you 
bring  her  back,  you  are  quite  welcome  to  go,"  was  Lady 
St.  Maur's  parting  address,  and  Sir  Ronald  forthwith 
went. 

Florence  was  not  quite  ready  to  return  to  Amersley, 
and  Sir  Ronald  declared  he  would  go  to  Portsmouth  mean- 
while ;  but,  somehow  or  other,  there  were  several  things  fox 


woman's   friendship.  295 

which  Floience  was  waiting,  and  which  ought  long  before 
to  have  arrived  from  London,  and  Florence's  movementg 
were  retarded  by  their  non-arrival ;  so  to  London  the 
Captain  went,  and  by  his  sailor-like  bustle  and  activity, 
all  that  was  needed  came  down  to  Hampshire  in  a  marvel- 
lously short  space  of  time ;  and,  this  accomplished,  he 
hovered  about  the  neighborhood  of  Woodlands,  his  vicinity 
perfectly  unknoA^ii  to  Florence,  and,  just  before  Christmas, 
escorted  her  back  to  Amersley,  with  the  most  brother-hke 
cordiality  imaginable. 


CHAPTER  XLVin. 

THE     HOUR     OF     TRIAL. 

Lord  Edgejiere's  family,  including  Frank  Howard  and 
Minie  Leslie,  had  arrived  in  Warwickshire  before  Florence 
returned,  and  Lady  St.  Maur  had  driven  over  to  see  them. 
Notliing  as  yet  had  alloyed  the  happiness  of  Minie,  for 
Frank  had  found  it  impossible  to  impart  to  her  his  fears 
regarding  his  father.  Florence  had  heard  repeatedly  from 
her  sister,  and  answered  her  letters  while  at  Woodlands. 
She  had  nerved  her  mind  to  read  those  letters,  radiant 
as  they  were  with  love  and  joy,  again  and  yet  again,  till 
the  bitter  pangs  wliich  they  caused  were  so  entirely  con- 
quered that  she  could  peruse  them  from  beginning  to  end 
without,  any  visible  emotion.  She  compelled  herself  to 
think  of  meeting  them,  of  looking  once  more  on  Howard, 
and  as  the  betrothed  husband  of  another  ;  she  thought  of 
it  till  every  feeling  of  her  o^vn  was  conquered,  and  she 
beheved  herself  nerved  to  meet  them  so  calmly,  so  col- 
lectedly, that  not  a  change  of  color  or  quivering  of  voice 
should  be  betrayed.  But  suspense,  or  rather  the  anticipa 
tion  of  trial,  was  intolerable,  and  she  therefore  wisely  re 
solved  to  meet  it  at  once. 

"  Florence,  you  know  not  what  you  undertake ;  be 
advised,  there  can  be  no  need  for  it  so  soon,"  urged  Lady 
St.  Maur  ;  but  Florence's  determination  was  not  to  be 
shaken. 


296  woman's   friendship. 

"  "VYc  must  meet,"  she  answered,  sadly,  yet  firmly ; 
"  why  should  I  defer  it  ?  Am  I  so  Aveak  that  I  cannot  see 
the  lulfillment  of  my  earnest  prayers  without  evincing  emo 
tion  ?  No,  let  me  try  my  strength,  and  then  I  can  bettc} 
iudgc  myself,  and  know  how  to  proceed." 

And  accordingly,  as  soon  as  the  weather  permitted,  they 
went  to  Beech  Vale,  Florence  was  received  with  the  warm 
est  cordiality  by  all  the  family ;  the  change  which  they 
supposed  her  severe  ilhiess  had  occasioned  was  sincerely  re- 
gretted, and  warm  congratulations  on  her  own  legacy  and 
her  sister's  happy  prospects  followed. 

"  Minie  and  Frank  are  in  the  east  room  ;  pray  make  no 
compliments,  dear  Florence,  but  join  them  when  you  like. 
Minie  is  all  impatience  to  see  you,  and  wondered  what  you 
could  find  to  detain  you  so  long  at  Woodlands,  in  this  miser- 
able season,"  Lady  Mary  said,  after  some  little  time  elapsed 
in  ordinary  conversation.  "  Frank  only  returned  from  Lon- 
don last  night ;  I  have  seen  him  but  a  few  minutes  this 
morning,  and  I  fear  that  all  is  not  as  right  as  it  should  be — 
his  face  was  somewhat  overshadowed." 

It  was  well  she  said  this  ;  for  now  the  hour  of  trial  had 
come,  Florence  had  felt  for  the  moment  as  if  she  could  not 
meet  it ;  but  recalled  by  Lady  Mary's  unconscious  intimation 
of  what  she  herself  had  long  anticipated,  her  strength  of 
mind  and  purpose  triumphed,  and  with  unfalterijig  steps 
she  quitted  the  apartment. 

In  the  east  room,  as  directed,  she  found  them,  but  the 
voice,  not  of  joy,  but  of  sorrow,  met  her  ear  ;  and  so  en- 
grossed were  those  she  sought  in  their  oaati  thoughts,  that 
she  stood  for  some  time  unobserved.  Frank  was  pacing 
the  chamber  with  most  uneven  steps,  his  cheek  highly 
colored  and  his  eye  flashing.  Mmie's  arms  were  resting 
on  the  table,  her  head  laid  upon  them,  in  an  attitude  of  • 
complete  despondency,  Avhile  her  whole  frame  shook  with 
«obs.  Her  beautiful  hair  hanging  loosely  over  her,  con- 
cealed her  face  from  her  sister  ;  but  Florence  knew  that 
gentle  nature  too  well  to  need  further  proof  of  suffering 
than  what  she  beheld. 

"  Cruel,  unjust,  capricious  I"  were  the  first  words  she 
heard,  in  Frank's  most  agitated  voice.  "  With  his  hoards 
of  untouched  gold,  -why  should  he  want  more  ?     Why  ia 


woman's   fhiendship.  297 

my  happiness  to  be  blighted  simply  because  an  unjust 
parent  refuses  his  consent  to  my  wedding  a  portionless 
bride  ?  Minie,  come  what  will,  you  must,  you  shall  be 
mine  !  With  or  without  his  consent,  I  will  claim  the  prom- 
ise you  have  made  me.  Are  we  to  suppress  our  united 
happiness  for  no  cause  ?  for  this  refusal  assigns  none.  My 
father  has  no  right  to  gall  me  thus  !  I  will  not  bear  it. 
What  can  money  or  title  give  me  more  than  I  possess 
already  ?  I  seek  happiness  and  love,  not  ambition.  Minie, 
my  own  sweet  love  I  do  not  weep  thus  ;  we  shall  be  happy 
in  each  other  yet." 

"  JN"o,  Frank,  no  I"  replied  Minie,  pushing  back  her 
long  hair,  which  was  wet  with  tears,  and  looking  up  ^n 
his  face,  as  he  bent  over  her  and  clasped  his  arms  around 
her.  "No,  precious  as  your  love  is,  I  will  not  come 
between  you  and  your  parent.  If  he  cannot  receive  me 
as  his  daughter,  if  he  thinks  reverence  and  love — for  I 
would  give  him  both — are  nothing  worth,  compared  to 
gold,  how  can  I,  how  dare  I  burden  you  with  me  ?  No, 
no !  I  love  you  too  well  to  expose  you  to  your  father's 
wrath.  We  must  wait ;  perhaps — "  but  her  sweet  voice 
faltered  as  she  spoke — "he  will  relent  after  a  time,  and 
then—" 

"  Relent  I"  muttered  Frank,  even  while  he  passionately 
kissed  the  upturned  brow,  as  if  to  thank  her  for  the  half- 
whispered  hope  ;  "I  never  knew  him  relent  when  once  he 
had  so  spoken.  Yfhy  did  I  not  marry  the  heiress,  for- 
sooth ?  he  asked  me  ;  as  if  his  son  had  power  to  woo  and 
wed  whomsoever  he  pleased.  Florence !"  he  abruptly 
exclaimed,  as,  lifting  his  head  at  the  moment,  he  met  her 
meek  and  gentle  gaze  ;  "  good  God,  how  changed  !  how 
ill  you  must  have  been  !" 

"  But  I  am  well  novv^  Mr.  Howard,  perfectly  weU ' 
therefore  pray  do  not  judge  me  by  my  looks,"  she  replied, 
meeting  his  glance  with  one  as  ready,  if  not  more  free 
from  agitation  than  his  own  ;  and  then  she  bent  do\vn  to 
imprint  repeated  kisses  on  the  cheek  of  her  sister,  who,  at 
Frank's  first  exclamation,  had  sprung  into  her  arras, 
"  Minie,  darling,  I  did  not  expect  a  greeting  of  tears , 
tome,  smile.  We  have  not  met  for  a  long  time,  and  I 
nave  been  ill,  and  you  have  been  happy ;  ought  you  not 


298  woman's  friendship. 

to  welcomn  me  like  your  own  sweet  self?  What  is  this 
weighty  grief?  Mr.  Howard,  treat  me  as  the  sister  you 
have  called  me,  and  tell  me  the  particulars  of  .what  I  so 
imperfectly  heard.  Lord  Glenvylle  objects  to  my  sister  as 
your  bride  because  she  has  no  portion  ;  is  that  it  ?  An 
evil  easily  remedied,  since,  thanks  to  Mrs.  Rivers's  gene- 
rosity, my  sister  is  not  portionless.  I  should  have  looked 
to  this  long  ago  had  not  illness  prevented  me ;  but  now 
let  me  know  all." 

Frank  seized  her  hand,  and  pressed  it  energetically  to 
his  lips.  If  it  trembled,  and  was  somewhat  hastily  with- 
drawn, he  was  too  much  excited  to  notice  it.  We  will 
give  the  substance  of  his  tale  in  our  own  words,  as  there 
were  some  points  which,  in  his  relation,  he  purposely 
omitted. 

His  father  had  insisted  he  should  break  off  his  engage- 
ment, for  that  his  consent  to  his  union  with  any  but  an 
heiress,  and  one  who  could  give  him  either  name  and  title, 
or  the  means  of  purchasing  them,  should  never  be  ob- 
tained. In  vain  Frank  urged  that  he  had  already  a  name, 
and  a  proud  one  ;  that  his  father's  title  was  sufficient  to 
content  him.  He  was  not  ambitious,  and  should  abhor 
owing  more  to  his  wife  than  domestic  happiness  and  love 
Why  should  Lord  Glenvylle  dwell  so  much  on  a  pecuniary 
portion  for  his  son's  bride,  when  his  wealth  was  already  so 
enormous,  and  he,  Frank,  wished  not  for  a  shilling  more 
than  his  present  handsome  allowance  ?  Lord  Glenvylle 
was  too  cold  and  dignified  a  person  to  give  any  violent 
sign  of  anger ;  but  he  grew  prouder  and  prouder,  colder 
and  colder,  till  his  son  felt  as  if  he  were  addressing  a 
statue,  and  his  excited  spirits  sunk  back  so  chilled,  that  it 
was  an  effort  to  urge  more.  Yet  still  he  spoke,  for  his 
love  Avas  too  deep  to  be  banished  by  a  parent's  word.  He 
said  that  he  was  convinced  Minie  would  not  be  portionless ; 
her  sister  was  not  one  to  hoard  her  lavish  wealth  :  and 
then  it  was  (though  Howard  did  not  repeat  it  to  Florence) 
that  the  Viscount  scornfully  bade  him  woo  the  heiress 
instead  of  her  sister!  The  possessor  of  Woodlands,  its 
rich  pasture-lands  and  woody  inclosures  might  be  a  fit 
wife  for  his  son.  A  portion  I  Lord  Glenvylle  laughed  at 
the  idea.     Miss  Leslie  had  been  too  lately  made  an  heiress 


woman's  friendship.  299 

to  give  away  any  part  of  her  possessions  ;  and  even  if  she 
did,  nothing  that  she  could  settle  on  her  sister  short  of 
the  inheritance  itself  would  endow  her  sufficiently  to  be 
Frank  Howard's  bride.  There  was  alike  scorn  and  satire 
in  every  word  ;  perhaps  there  was  more,  but  icy  pride  was 
a  veil  too  invulnerable  for  his  agitated  son  to  penetrate 
He  used  all  his  eloquence,  yet  never  forgetting  the  re- 
spect he  always  paid  his  father ;  but  his  kindly  feelings 
felt  withered  witliin  him,  and — when  that  interview  ended 
by  a  solemn  declaration,  on  the  part  of  Lord  Glenvylle, 
that  if  Mr.  Francis  Howard  persisted  in  wedding  a  por- 
tioiJess  girl,  his  allowance  would  be  stopped  on  the 
mstant,  and  he  would  find  himself  without  a  shilling 
wherewithal  to  support  himself  or  bride ;  so  let  him 
ponder  ere  he  decided — Frank  left  his  presence  without 
uttering  a  word,  for  speak  he  could  not.  The  hot  blood 
had  mounted  to  his  very  brow,  and  he  bit  his  nether  lip 
in  the  effort  to  strain  the  bursting  passion,  till  the  blood 
came  ;  but  he  conquered  himself  Lord  Glenvylle,  in  the 
solitary  moments  of  remorse  which  followed  Frank's  de- 
parture, could  not  recall  one  word  in  which  his  son  had 
forgotten  their  relative  positions  of  cliild  and  parent. 

"Love?  pooh  I  he  will  soon  get  over  it,"  so  his  lord- 
ship thought,  as  he  sat  alone  ;  "but  why  should  I  thwart 
him  thus  ?  Why  !  merciful  heavens  I  if  he  knew  what  is 
consum/ng  me — that  I  require  an  heiress  for  him  because 
wealth  gold,  another  title,  may  enable  him  to  rise  up 
against  the  blow  which  one  day  I  know  will  fall,  and  on 
him,  to  punish  his  miserable,  guilty  father.  How  know 
1  that  he  will  inherit  the  rank  to  which  he  now  looks 
forward  ?  I  dare  not  call  them  his,  for  I  know  not  who 
may  come  to  claim  them  ;  and  yet  he  believes  I  do  not 
feel  for  him,  I  do  not  love  him — the  only  being  who  saved 
me  from  seeking  death  by  my  own  hand.  Frank,  my 
boy  !  my  poor,  poor  boy  !  the  truth  would  be  his  death." 

And  could  Frank  have  heard  the  groans  and  sobs  which 
followed  this  soliloquy,  he  would  have  been  spared  one 
bitter  feeling ;  for  he  must  have  been  convinced  that  he 
was  an  object  of  love,  however  strangely  and  mysteriously 
that  love  was  proved.  But  he  could  not  know  this,  and 
while  more  and  more  painfully  the  conviction  pressed  upon 


300  woman's  friendship. 

him  that  even  the  small  portion  of  affection  which  he  he« 
lieved  his  father  had  once  borne  him,  must  have  dwindled 
away  beneath  what  appeared  only  an  increasing  love  of 
gold,  his  heart,  wounded  and  suffering,  clung  yet  more 
fondly  to  the  only  being  on  earth  by  whom  he  could 
beUeve  himself  beloved.  Break  from  her  now  I  dissolve 
his  engagement !  bid  her,  like  himself,  languish  in  all  the 
lingering  torture  of  hope  deferred  I  he  could  not,  he  would 
not  I  'No,  did  he  even  forget  his  birth,  and  seek  some 
honest  business  which  could  support  them  both. 

Li  this  mood  he  remained  in  London  about  four-and- 
twenty  hours,  and  then  galloped  back  to  Beech  Yale.  It 
was  easy,  even  for  indifferent  persons,  to  discover  that  all 
was  not  right ;  and  Minie,  unsuspicious  of  all  evil  as  she 
generally  was,  found  some  difficulty  in  preserving  her 
joyous  spirits  until  their  being  alone  permitted  her  to 
draw  from  him  the  cause.  Frank  had  intended  to  con- 
ceal, or  at  least  to  soften,  the  facts,  but  his  nature  was 
much  too  impetuous.  Miserable  himself,  and  therefore 
longing  for  sympathy  and  affection,  he  poured  out  his 
whole  soul  to  liis  betrothed.  Minie  was  not  one  to  bear 
up  against  an  unexpected  blow  with  fortitude.  She  did 
not  utter  a  syllable  of  complaint,  but  she  clung  to  him, 
and  wept  unrestramedly.  Her  grief  of  course  heightened 
Frank's  more  tumultuary  feelings,  and  occasioned  the 
passionate  burst  which  Florence  had  overheard. 

Although  Howard  did  not  enter  into  all  these  particu- 
lars, he  related  enough  for  Florence  perfectly  to  compre- 
hend the  fact.  Perhaps  her  own  previous  cogitations  on 
this  subject  rendered  her  more  than  usually  clear-sighted 
Be  that  as  it  may,  though  she  did  not  betray  her  inten- 
tions, the  time  passed  with  the  lovers  was  not  without  its 
fruit.  She  left  them  soothed  and  hopeful ;  they  scarcely 
knew  wherefore,  and  their  every  feeling  of  love  and  vene- 
Tation  heightened  towards  herself. 

To  the  astonishment  of  Lord  and  Lady  St.  Maur,  tho 
foUowmg  morning  Florence  announced  an  intention  of 
visiting  London  for  a  week  or  two. 

"  At  this  season,  with  every  appearance  of  snow  setting 
in  for  weeks,  and  blocking  up  the  roads !  My  dear 
Florence,  you  are  certainly  mad  to  think  of  it    exclaimed 


woman's  friendship.  301 

the  Countess,  half  jesting  and  half  in  earnest.  "  What 
business  can  you  have  so  important  as  not  to  wait  a  more 
favorable  season  ?  Do  be  advised.  Strong  as  you  think 
yourself,  and  are  mentally,  physically  you  certainly  are  not, 
and  I  feel  inclined  to  lay  a  positive  command  on  you  to  stay 
at  home." 

"  Pray  do  not,  dearest  Lady  St.  Maur,  for  indeed  in  this  case 
I  can  not  obey  you.  Affairs  of  consequence  to  Minie's  happi- 
ness call  me  to  London,  and  must  not  be  delayed." 

"  Minie  I"  repeated  the  Countess,  and  her  tone  was  most 
unusually  impatient.     Florence  understood  it. 

"  Yes,  Minie,  my  dear  friend.  Her  happiness  is  now 
mine,  all  that  at  present,  at  least,  is  left  to  me.  Do  not 
grudge  my  securing  that,  even  though  the  manner  of  doing 
so  may  seem  unwise.  I  cannot  now  explain  my  meaning, 
only  trust  me  till  my  return,  and  you  shall  know  all." 

There  was  an  earnestness  in  her  manner  impossible  to 
be  gainsayed  ;  and  accepting  only  the  escort  of  the  faithful 
Ferrers,  Florence  set  off  for  London,  to  Sir  Ronald  Elliott's 
great  disappointment,  scarcely  ten  days  after  her  return 
from  "Woodlands. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

LORD   GLENVYLLE. — THE  SACRIFICE. 

It  was  one  of  those  dull,  cheerless  mornings  of  January, 
the  sno"w  i'alling  at  intervals,  and  the  wind  so  cold  and  cut- 
ting that  few,  except  those  unhappy  pedestrian  teachers 
who  are  compelled  to  bear  all  weathers,  would  have  ven- 
tured out.  There  had  been  a  heavy  fall  of  snow,  and  then 
a  thaw,  and  then  as  rapid  a  frost,  so  that  the  thoroughfare 
had  the  semblance  of  dirty  glass.  Folks  could  not  walk 
fast  for  fear  of  falling,  and  so  they  shuffled  and  fretted  along, 
shivering  with  the  nipping  wind,  and  looking,  from  their 
purple  cheeks,  red  noses,  and  watery  eyes,  the  very  carica- 
tures of  misery  ;  for  cold,  though  one  of  the  worst  evils  to 
encounter,  is  the  most  ludicrous  to  witness,  and  the  unfor- 
tunate sufferers  receive  little  sympathy  from  their  warmly- 
clad  and  warmly-sheltered  observers. 

26 


302  woman's  friendship. 

From  a  small  morning-room  in  one  of  the  mansions  in 
Belgrave  Square,  however,  the  cold  was  so  efTcctually  ex- 
cluded that  it  had  almost  the  atmosphere  of  summer. 
The  sole  inmate  of  this  comfortable  retreat  was  a  man 
very  little  more  than  fifty,  if  years  could  be  counted  by 
the  figure,  which  even  in  a  sitting  posture  was  unusually 
erect  and  dignified ;  his  face  told  another  tale,  not  so 
much,  perhaps,  of  years,  but  of  passions  and  their  con- 
sequences, making  him  old  before  his  time.  The  coun- 
tenance had  been  unusually  handsome,  but  it  was  indented, 
by  those  strong  lines  about  the  brow  and  mouth — the  sure 
indexes  of  strong  passions,  held  under  forcible  restraint 
by  some  feeling  yet  stronger  than  themselves.  His  eyes 
were  large,  dark,  and  piercing  ;  but  so  seldom  now  per- 
mitted to  become  expressive,  that  their  natural  brightness 
never  destroyed  the  stony  calmness  of  the  other  features. 
His  whole  appearance  was  that  of  a  solemn  statue,  to 
whom  the  feelings  and  passions  of  mankind  were  now  as 
things  unknown,  and  never,  to  the  recollection  of  any  oi 
liis  domestics,  had  this  solemn  rigidity  been  disturbed. 
Days,  weeks,  years,  left  him  untouched  in  outward  appear- 
ance, except  by  mingling  his  raven  hair  more  profusely 
\\dth  gray,  and  deepening  the  hues  upon  his  brow.  He 
seldom  encountered  the  eyes  of  his  fellows,  for  he  Uved 
absolutely  alone,  isolated  at  first  by  his  own  choice,  and 
next  by  the  dislike  of  those  whom  he  had  scorned.  He 
was  dressed  with  care,  but  plainly,  and  there  was  an 
absence  of  all  pretension  about  the  room,  which  seemed  to 
denote  that  he  cared  Httle  for  outward  things  :  his  whole 
world  was  ^\^THIN,  and  terrible,  indeed,  at  times,  v/ere 
the  tempests  and  convulsions  of  that  world.  That,  though 
devoid  of  pretension,  his  apartment  was  almost  luxurious 
in  comfort,  was  httle  owing  to  himself :  his  housekeeper, 
incited  by  her  much-loved  young  master,  had  so  cau- 
tiously and  gradually  rendered  it  thus,  that  it  grew  upou 
him  unconsciously. 

He  was  accused  of  parsimony,  perhaps  with  justice ; 
but  a  miser  he  was  not.  Hoard  wealth  he  did,  strangely 
and  engrossingly,  and  none  could  guess  wherefore  :  but 
we  must  check  tliis  long  digression,  for  though  without 
Lord  Glenvylle  our  tale  would  have  no  comiection,  he  ia 


woman's  friendship.  303 

loo  little  known  to  our  readers  for  more  particular  notice, 
especially  as  our  fast  diminishing  space  warns  us  loudly  to 
conclude. 

It  was  near  three  o'clock,  when  a  footman  entered,  his 
face  so  expressive  of  astonishment,  that  any  one  but  Lord 
Glenvylle  must  have  demanded  its  cause. 

"  My  lord  ;  a  lady,  my  lord,  wishes  to  speak  with  your 
lordship.     She  will  take  no  denial." 

Lord  Glenvylle's  face  was  always  pale,  or  it  might  have 
appeared  to  become  yet  more  so  ;  but,  to  the  man's  increas- 
ing wonder,  his  master  stared  him  in  the  face  without  at- 
umpting  reply. 

"  Shall  1  show  her  in  here,  my  lord,  or  into  the  draw- 
ing-room ;  she  is  close  behind  me  ;"  and  the  lady,  whoever 
she  might  be,  entered,  supposing  she  had  been  sufficiently 
announced,  ere  one  syllable  of  reply  had  passed  Lord  Glen- 
vylle's iips. 

He  rose  involuntarily  ;  for  no  seclusion,  no  eccentriCxty 
could  conquer  the  habits  of  the  English  gentleman,  still  so 
strong  within.  He  fixed  a  glance  on  his  visitor,  with 
an  emotion  which,  could  it  be  possible,  seemed  like 
alarm.  She  was  standing  in  the  shade,  for  the  room  was 
thickly  curtained,  and  three  o'clock  in  January  is  Httle 
more  than  twilight :  her  veil  of  black  crape — for  she  was 
in  mourning — ^was  raised  indeed,  but  still  hung  so  much 
over  her  face,  as  almost  to  conceal  it ;  and  however  little 
satisfaction  his  penetrative  glance  could  afibrd  him,  it  per- 
mitted Lord  Glenvylle  to  recover  his  voice  and  his  cold, 
r3pelling  manner. 

"  I  am  honored,"  he  said,  sarcastically,  as  his  domestic 
quitted  the  room  :  "  it  is  seldom  that  a  lady  deigns  to  en- 
liven my  apartments  with  her  piesence.  May  I  crave  the 
reason  of  this  ur.usual  honor,  and  the  name  of  my  fair  visi- 
tant?" 

"I  am  come  to  answer  both,  my  lord,"  replied  a  voico 
of  such  soul-subduing  gentleness,  that  he  winced  beneath 
it.  "I  fear  I  intrude,  but  a  very  brief  mterval  of  attention 
will  suffice  me  ;  my  name  is  Florence  Leslie,  and  it  is 
on  account  of  your  son,  though  not  senl  by  him,  that  I  am 
here." 

His  face,  which  had  appeared   about  to  relax,  bccamo 


804  woman's   friendship. 

Btone  again  ;  but  lie  motioned  her  to  a  chair,  and  sat  dov/B 
again  himself. 

"  Leslie  ?  Florence  Leslie  ?  My  son's  betrothed  bride, 
perchance,  for  such  I  believe  was  the  name,  come  to  plead 
her  own  cause  with  the  iron-hearted  father.  Madam,  you 
should  have  tried  some  other  method  ;  I  am  not  one  to  melt 
at  woman's  tears." 

"Nor  am  I  one  to  shed  them,  my  lord,"  she  answered 
with  a  dignity  which  involuntarily  commanded  respect , 
"  nor  would  the  chosen  bride  of  your  noble  son  demean 
herself  in  the  manner  which  you  are  pleased  to  beheve, 
No,  Lord  Glenvylle,  I  am  not  Frank  Howard's  chosen 
bride,  but  the  sister-  of  that  bride  ;  come  hither  not  to 
plead,  but  simply  to  know  if,  indeed,  the  decree  you  have 
pronounced  be  irrevocable,  as  they  believe  it ;  or,  if  by  any 
exertion,  any  sacrifice  on  my  part,  it  can  be  changed.  My 
lord,  I  am  perchance,  too  bold  ;  this  intrusion  upon  one  so 
retired,  so  removed  from  the  world — perhaps  from  the  feel- 
ings of  the  world — as  yourself,  may  well  be  regarded  as 
unmaidenly,  or,  to  say  the  least,  unwise  ;  but  when  the 
whole  heart  is  intent  on  the  furtherance  of  one  object,  idle 
forms  are  wont  to  be  rejected,  and  we  tliink  only  of  that 
which  we  so  earnestly  wish  to  gain." 

Lord  Glenvylle  looked  at  her  with  surprise,  and  his 
tone  was  somewhat  less  sarcastic  as  he  answered — "  In 
this  instance.  Madam,  it  is  a  subject  of  regret  that  so  much 
enthusiasm  should  be  wasted.  My  decision  is,  as  my  son 
justly  believes,  irrevocable." 

"  And  wherefore,  my  lord  ?  Pardon  me,  but  as  your 
affection  for  your  son  has  never  been  doubted,  I  cannot 
beheve  that  a  mere  prejudice  should  obtain  such  an  ascend- 
ency. You  would  not  condemn  Mr.  Howard  to  unhap- 
piness,  without  some  very  powerful  reason.  My  sister's 
birth  is,  indeed,  not  noble  ;  but  for  aught  else,  my  lord,  she 
may  vie  with  the  highest  and  the  noblest  of  the  land.  See 
her,  know  her,  and  let  her  gentle  virtues,  and  your  son's  af- 
fection, plead  for  both." 

"  You  are  eloquent,  Miss  Leslie  ;  I  doubt  not  but  that 
the  object  of  your  interest  is  deserving  of  all  praise.  Prej- 
udice against  herself  I  have  none.  My  son  must  marry ; 
I  care  little  whom,  so  he  is  happy.     His  wife  will  be  as 


woman's   friendship.  305 

little  worth  to  me  as  others  of  her  sex.  I  am  not  what 
men  term  ambitious,  for  did  a  prince's  .daughter  win  his 
Love,  without  the"  power  of  making  him,  if  need  be,  other 
than  he  is,  my  refusal  to  such  a  union  were  unchangeable 
as  now." 

"  Forgive  me,  my  lord ;  but  seeking,  as  I  do,  the  hap- 
piness of  one  so  dear,  this  mysterious  answer  can  not 
satisfy  me.  You  own  that  no  prejudice  actuates  you 
against  my  sister  ;  you  say  that  you  are  not  ambitious, 
that  you  seek  but  your  son's  happiness,  and  yet  you  refuse 
to  permit  it.  A  prince's  daughter*  can  scarcely  cause  the 
same  objection  as  my  sister — she  would  have  both  birth 
and  fortune — and  yet  your  refusal  would  extend  to  her. 
How,  then,  can  I  obviate  objections,  which  seem  so  con- 
tradictory ?  I  am  rich,  my  lord,  and  can  well  afford  to 
make  my  sister  rich.  Name  that  portion  which  will 
andow  her  sufficiently  to  be  the  bride  of  your  son,  and, 
if  it  be  within  my  income,  it  is  hers." 

"Riches  have  not  been  long  yours,  they  tell  me,  yet 
you  would  part  with  them.  Strange,  most  strange  !" 
replied  Lord  Glenvylle,  musingly ;  "  yet,  perhaps,  not 
so  ;  they  have  not  been  long  enough  your  own  for  you 
to  know  their  value.  Madam,  take  advice,  ponder  on  their 
worth  ere  you  offer  to  part  with  them." 

"  Value — worth  I  talk  you  of  the  value  of  gold,  com- 
pared with  the  value  of  happiness,  the  enjoyment  of  be- 
stowing it  ?  My  lord,  my  lord,  how  little  you  have  read 
the  human  heart  !" 

"I  have  read  too  much  of  it,"  he  exclaimed,  starting 
up  with  sudden  emotion,  and  pacing  the  chamber;  "too 
much  of  it ;  I  have  read  its  annals  in  my  own,  and  they 
are  black — ^black  as  the  thoughts  that  torture  !  Pshaw, 
this  is  folly,  what  can  have  moved  me  thus  ?  a  voice,  a 
woman's  voice.  Can  I  not  hear  it  yet  in  peace  ?  away 
with  the  weak  folly  !  Human  heart  !  Aye,  I  have  read 
it — read  but  its  dark  page." 

"  Then  read  another  now,  my  lord"  replied  Florence, 
meekly,  subduing  with  an  effort  the  alai-m  which  his  man- 
ner, almost  that  of  madness,  caused.  "  Look  beyond  the 
black  veil  you  have  cast  before  you.  Surely,  surely,  in 
the  heart  of  your  son  may  be  read  whole  pages  of  noble- 
26* 


306  WOMAN'S     FRIENDSH.'IP. 

ness,  virtue,  truth,  wbich  might  give  a  fairer,  lovelier  faca 
to  humanity.  Di4l  you  look  but  there,  the  glow  of  that 
heart  would  dissolve  the  clouds  you  deem  so  black  within 
your  own." 

Lord  Glenvylle  paused  abruptly  before  her.  "Why 
did  he  not  love  you?"  he  muttered,  "it  is  strange  that 
any  me  but  those  deluded  by  love  should  so  read  a  human 
heart.  "Why  not  trust  his  happiness  to  one  so  capable,  it 
would  seem,  of  appreciating  and  securing  it  ?  If  he  had, 
there  would  have  been  no  need  of  all  this  ;  I  had  consented 
without  a  word." 

"  And  why  so  honor  me,  my  lord,  and  yet  refuse  my 
sister — younger,  fairer,  in  all  things  more  fitted  to  be  his 
bride  ?  I  do  beseech  you,  alter  this  decision.  Say  but 
what  portion  will  make  my  sister  in  your  eyes  worthy,  as 
you  are  pleased  to  deem  myself,  and  again  I  say  it  shall  be 
hers." 

"Madam,  I  know  not  how  it  can  be  ;  you  are  an  heiress, 
she  is  nothing  ;  and  an  heiress  only,  with  my  consent,  shall 
Francis  Howard  wed." 

"  And  were  Minie  Leshe  heiress  in  the  stead  of  Florence 
Leslie,  would  all  objection  be  removed?  I  conjure  you 
to  reply.  Is  it  but  this,  to  become  an  heiress,  and  your 
consent  to  your  son's  choice  is  gained  ?" 

"  Madam,  I  repeat  it  is  only  this" — Florence  clasped  her 
hands  with  sudden  joy — "  Aye,"  he  added,  sarcastically, 
for  his  nature  imagined  not  her  meaning,  "transfer  your 
newly-acquired  inheritance  to  the  sister  you  so  profess  to 
love,  and  she  shall  be  Frank  Howard's  bride  ;  will  ro- 
mantic enthusiasm  permit  so  great  a  sacrifice  ?  The  world 
must  change  its  nature  first." 

"  Do  you  speak  in  earnest,  my  lord,  or  is  it  but  sar 
castic  jest  ?  Oh  I  do  not  trifle  with  feelings  such  as  these," 
she  entreated,  gazing  on  him  with  eyes  which  riveted  his 
upon  hers.  Her  veil  and  bonnet  had  fallen  back,  and,  for 
the  first  time,  her  pale  face  was  fully  revealed.  "  Tell  me,' 
I  beseech  you,  promise  me,  that  if  I  do  this,  there  shall  be 
no  more  objection  nor  denial,  and  that  Minie  Leslie  shall  be 
your  son's  bride." 

Engrossed  in  her  own  emotion,  she  saw  not  that  damp 
Irops  liad  started  to  Lord  Glenvylle' s  brow,  and  that  ho 


woman's   friendship  307 

had  sunk  back  in  his  chair,  as  if  faint  with  some  sndden 
pain,  and  passing  his  hand  across  his  brow,  had  muttered 
— "Fool,  ibolj  what  right  have  I  to  parley  thus  with 
women ^?  I  have  forsworn  them ;  they  are  all  spectres  of 
the  past ;  like  or  unlike  the  same  I"  and  again  he  started 
up,  and  strode  across  the  room.  Florence  repeated  her 
words,  for  it  seemed  as  if  he  had  not  caught  their  sense  ; 
.and  then  he  paused,  when  every  feature  wliich  had  been 
a  moment  since  convulsed  and  workmg,  became  rigid  as 
its  wont. 

"  I  have  said  it,  madam ;  were  my  sen's  choice  an 
heiress,  my  consent  had  never  been  witlilield." 

"  You  will  promise  this,  my  lord." 

"  Aye,  in  black  and  wliite,  if  it  so  please  you."  She 
turned  hastily  to  the  table,  as  if  eagerly  accepting  the  pro- 
posal, then  paused.  "  No ;  not  yet.  I  will  not  claim  it 
now.  My  lord,  I  ask  but  your  Avord,  and  your  honor  is 
sufficient  for  my  trust.  Promise  me,  as  a  gentleman, 
whose  simple  word  shall  be  far  more  sacred  than  the 
mere  stroke  of  pen,  that  if  I  bring  earnest  of  my  sincerity 
in  this  matter,  strange  as  it  may  seem  to  you,  you  will  not 
fail  in  yours.  You  will  grant  freely  and  fuUy  the  consent 
I  claim,  and  by  no  word  or  sign  embitter  the  blessing 
wliich  you  give.  Promise  me  tliis ;  grant  me  one  more 
interview,  it  shall  be  briefer  than  this  has  been,  and  with 
my  presence  I  will  trouble  you  no  more." 

"  Miss  Leslie,  mysterious  and  incomprehensible  being, 
I  do  give  you  this  promise,  and  it  shall  be  sacredly, 
solemnly  observed ;  you  may  trust  ixic ;  your  words  and 
mannei  are  too  solemn  for  the  jest  I  deemed  them.  Yet 
it  can  not  be  :  there  never  yet  was  human  nature  dis- 
interested as  this.  Pause,  ponder,  weigh,  ere  romance 
becomes  reahty ;  you  will  not  be  able  to  retrace  this 
Etep  when  once  taken.  Tliink  that  there  will  be  no  return, 
no  gratitude  ;  build  no  delusive  hope  on  the  belief  that 
generosity,  devotedness,  have  •  power  to  purchase  love. 
Those  you  seek  to  serve  are  too  much  wrapt  in  each  other 
to  spare  one  grain  of  love  for  you  ;  hope  it  not ;  look  not 
for  it ;  you  will  reap  but  ashes.  I  am  not  ambitious. 
Kg,  no."  He  grasped  her  arm,  and  his  face  became 
■  /id.       "  Miss   Leslie,    there  is  a  cause  for   tliis   seeming 


308  woman's  friendship. 

tyranny  ;  my  "boy  knows  it  not,  may  never  know  it ;  but  he 
may  need  change  of  name,  change  of  heritage.  You  think 
me  mad — ^be  it  so  ;  let  his  wife  give  him  these,  and  whoever 
she  be,  I  care  not.  Go — go,  make  liim  happy  I  My  boy  ! 
— my  Frank,  and — and  God  bless  you." 

His  grasp  on  her  arm  became  literally  convulsed ;  he 
glared  m  her  face,  and  rushed  from  the  room. 

Florence  looked  after  liim,  bewildered,  terrified,  for  she 
felt  con,vinced  that  words,  look,  and  mamier  were  all  mad- 
ness. Was  she  right  in  trusting  to  a  promise  from  one 
seeming  so  httle  capable  of  keeping  it  ?  Surely  it  was 
sometliuig  more  than  the  mere  eccentricity  for  which  he 
was  noted.  His  words  had  drilled  her  heart,  but  not  her 
pm-pose.  But  though  the  glow  of  enthusiasm  had  been 
darkened,  the  sustaining  impulse  remained.  What  was 
the  sacrifice  of  riches,  to  that  of  heart  wliich  she  had 
already  made  ?  There  was  neither  pause  nor  doubting  in 
her  purpose.  Strangely  as  he  had  spoken,  she  yet  firmly 
beheved  that  Lord  Glen\'ydle  would  not  deceive  her.  Li 
her  hands,  as  she  had  prayed,  was  the  happiness  or  misery 
of  him  she  loved. 


CHAPTER  i.. 

FEANK   AND   MIME   HAPPY. 


Ten  days  sufficed  for  Florence  efTectually .  to  conclvdo 
the  business  which  had  brought  her  to  London ;  and  or 
her  return  she  found  a  merry  party  assembled  at  Amersley 
HaU.  Lord  Edgemere's  family  had  at  length  accepted 
Lord  St.  Maur's  often-profiered  invitation,  and  Franli 
Howard  and  Mmie  Leslie  were  of  course  of  the  party. 
The  joyous  face  of  the  latter  was  abeady  dimmed  by 
anxiety ;  duty  suggested  the  propriety  of  separating  her- 
self from  Howard,  till  his  father's  objections  could  be 
surmounted ;  but  this  was  an  act  of  heroism  for  wliicb 
her  nature  was  too  simple,  and  her  love  too  powerful,  foj 
her  to  carry  it  into  effect ;  opposed  too,  as  it  was,  by  Lad) 
Mary,   who   violently   protested    against   Lord   Glenvj^lle* 


woman's  friendship.  309 

tyranny,  and  vowed  that  it  should  not  be  regarded.  Frank, 
she  said  Avas  old  and  wise  enough  to  choose  and  decide 
for  himself. 

Lady  St,  Maur  had  half  wished,  for  Florence's  sake, 
that  Lord  Edgemere's  visit  had  been  concluded  before  she 
returned,  or,  at  least,  that  Frank  should  have  left  the 
party.  Something  in  her  expressive  features  must  have 
betrayed  this,  as  she  affectionately  greeted  her,  for  Florence 
answered  hei  thoughts, 

'  Do  not  fear  for  me,  my  land  friend,"  she  said,  as  they 
saJ;  alone  in  the  Counte&s,' &  boudoir ;  "I  feel  as  if  I  were 
strengthened  to  Bee  him,  speak  v/ith  him,  even  with 
pleasure,  for  I  have  made  him  happy  :  he  will  not,  shall 
not  Imow  how,  until — "  she  paused  a  moment,  as  if 
gathermg  firixuiess — "  until  he  is  my  sister's  husband,  and 
camiot  impose  upon  me  the  suffering  of  any  resistance  to 
my  wishes.  Oh  I  Lady  St.  Maur,  you  said  once — '  I 
should  rejoice  in  Mr.  Rivers's  unexpected  generosity.' 
Kejoice  !  my  wildest  dream  had  not  pictured  its  bringing 
me  happiness  hke  this." 

"  Florence  I  what  have  you  done  ?  "  inquired  the  Coun- 
tess, startled  almost  into  consciousness ;  "  you  cannot  have 

been  so  foohsh  as  to ."     Florence's  hand  was  gently 

laid  on  her  mouth. 

"  Do  not  you  call  it  fooHsh,  Lady  St.  Maur,  or  you  will 
forswear  yourself,  for  you  have  said,  there  may  be  such  a 
thing  as  making  our  own  happiness  by  securmg  that  ot 
"others.  Oh !  do  not — do  not  cliide  your  poor  Florenca 
for  this.  What  can  I  look  to  for  personal  happiness? 
What  can  my  thousands  bring  to  me  but  increase  of  care  ? 
I  have  known  only  misery  smce  they  became  mine ;  not 
indeed  through  them,  but  they  have  become  so  associated 
with  suffering,  that  I  loathe  their  very  name.  Why  should 
it  be  folly  then  to  act  as  I  have  done,  to  go  back  to  that 
station  in  wliich  I  was  so  happy  ?  Dependent,  indeed  I 
am  not.  Ko,  no  !  Had  I  not  reserved  that  which  I  felt 
was  sufficient  for  my  need,  aye,  for  domg  what  httle  good 
I  can,  they  would  have  pressed  it  on  me  ;  I  should  have 
been  compelled  to  look  one  day  for  return,  for  gratitud*^ 
from  those  whom  I  had  served  ;  and  that,  that  I  could  not 
do.      Dearest   Lady   St.    Maur,"    she   exclaimed   with  in- 


31C  woman's  friendship. 

creasing  agitation,  *'  do  not  refuse  me  this :  let  me  still 
retain  the  station  I  have  occupied  in  your  family — the 
best.  Oh  I  how  much  the  best  for  me  I  How  could  I 
have  mingled  with  the  world,  or  performed  what  is  natu- 
rally expected  from  Mrs.  E-ivcrs's  heiress,  with  the  bittei 
consciousness  of  what  I  am  ?  Shoidd  I  not  feel  more  and 
more  painfully  that  I  was  imposing  myself  upon  the  world 
for  what  I  am  not  ?  But  in  your  household,  still  youi 
chosen  friend.  Lady  Helen's  companion,  aiding  you  in 
rearmg  your  sweet  children  to  be  like  yourself.  There  may  be 
happiness  in  store  for  me  yet,  or  at  least  cahiint,ss,  cheer- 
fulness, peace.  Oh  !  do  not  say  I  have  acted  unwisely ;  I 
have  made  no  sacrifice ;  done  nothing  I  could  Avish  un- 
done ;  indeed,  indeed,  I  have  not.  Let  me  live  with  you, 
be  your  lowly  Florence  still ;"'  and  a  burst  of  passionate 
tears  choked  that  eloquent  appeal. 

J  Lady  St.  Maur  could  not  condemn,  could  not  say  one 
word  against  a  resolution  which,  formed  as  some  cold- 
hearted  people  might  deem  it  on  mere  romantic  enthu- 
siasm, had  yet  been  acted  upon  with  a  forethought  ana 
dehberation  which  precluded  all  idea  of  after-regret.  She 
endeavored  only  to  soothe  her  friend's  unwonted  excite- 
ment. She  promised  that  all  should  be  as  she  wished.  She 
woidd  not  condemn,  would  not  refuse  her  sanction  to  it, 
however  such  decision,  on  the  part  of  Florence,  might 
occasion  her  regret. 

Before  the  dressing  hell  sounded.  Lord  St.  Maur  and 
Lord  Edgemere  were  summoned  to  the  Countess's  bo^idoir, 
aild  Florence  answered  so  calmly,  so  decisively,  all  their 
prudent  arguments,  to  prove  that  her  course  of  actmg  was 
neither  wise  nor  positively  demanded,  and,  therefore,  she 
iTiight  still  repent  it,  that  they  found  it  was  useless  to  per- 
sist, and  acquiesced,  though  vith  regret,  in  all  she  desired, 
promising  to  take  all  further  law  busmess  out  of  her  hands, 
and  so  contrive  it  that  the  bridegroom  elect  should,  as  she 
particularly  wished,  be  ignorant  of  liis  bride's  fortune  till 
Ills  wedding-day. 

To  Lord  Edgemere,  this  resolution  was  a  subject  ahke 
of  astonishment  and  mystery.  To  Lord  St.  Maur  it  waa 
neither.  He  could  understand  the  feehng  wliicli  dictated 
this  line  of  conduct,  and  how  pauifully  she  would  slmnk 


woman's  friendship.  311 

from  any  thing  of  publicity  or  notoriety  attending  it ;  and 
while  he  regretted  the  decision,  he  honored  her  with  a 
larger  portion  of  reverence  and  esteem  than  he  believed 
any  woman  could  have  had  power  to  excite,  except  his 
wife  ;  and  he  inwardly  blushed  at  the  idle  prejudice  which, 
even  for  an  hour,  could  have  suggested  the  idea  of  banish- 
ing such  a  being  from  the  friendship  of  his  Ida. 

"  I  bring  you  news,  joyous  news,  my  gentle  sister,"  ex- 
claimed Florence,  after  completing  the  business  of  the 
toilet,  and  finding  her  sister  in  a  favorite  sittmg-room, 
opening  into  the  greenhouse  ;  "  give  that  to  Mr.  Howard 
— to  Frank,"  she  added,  determined  to  pronounce  his 
name,  "  and  see  if  its  mystic  characters  have  not  power 
to  change  that  anxious  look  mto  your  former  sweet 
smiles." 

Frank  was  not  far  off;  and  overhearing  Florences 
words,  bounded  into  the  room  again  just  as  Minie,  with 
a  cry  of  joy,  called  upon  his  namie.  "  My  father's  hand 
and  seal!"  he  ejaculated,  almost  breathless.  "Can  he 
have  relented — granted  my  request  ?  Oh,  it  is  impossible  I" 
The  letter  was  torn  open  as  he  stood,  Minie  clinging  to  his 
arm,  and  devouring  with  him  its  contents.  For  a  full 
minute  Florence  calmly  looked  on  them  both  ;  but  when 
Frank  suddeidy  caught  Minie  to  his  bosom,  bursting  forth 
into  a  wild,  passionate  cry  of  joy,  her  heart  turned  sick,  and 
every  pulse  stood  still.  A  minute,  and  the  pang  passed ; 
and  well  it  Avas,  for  the  next  moment  Frank  was  at  hei 
side,  clasping  her  hand,  and  pouring  forth  thanks, 
blessings,  inquiries,  all  in  a  breath  ;  while  Minie  could 
only  throw  herself  on  her  neck  and  weep  for  very 
ioy. 

"  Be  satisfied,  my  dear  friend,"  she  said,  when  he  per- 
mitted her  to  speak,  and  her  voice  was  quite  calm  ;  "  I  have 
gained  Lord  Glenvylle's  unconditional  consent.  Nothing 
san  now  interfere  with  your  happiness — indulge  it  without 
alloy  ;  and  let  me  enjoy  the  thought  that  I  have  gained  it, 
\vithout  further  question.  Rest  satisfied  that  to  procure 
this  consent  I  have  done  nothing  that  I  oen  ever  regret , 
nothing  that  has  occasioned,  or  can  occasion,  me  one 
moment's  feeling  which  you,  as  a  brother,  could  have 
wished  otherwise.     That  my  journey  to  London,  and  brief 


312  woman's  friendship. 

detention  there,  Avas  on  your  account,  I  will  not  deny  ;  but 
do  not  ask  me  more,  for  indeed  I  will  not  answer." 

Frank  looked  at  her  doubtingly,  almost  sorrowfully ; 
but  playful  as  was  her  mamier,  it  was  too  decided  to  be 
evaded.  "  Tell  me  but  one  thing,"  he  said,  earnestly, 
"  dearest  Florence  ;  only  tell  me  that  to  obtain  this  con- 
sent, so  unexpected,  from  one  like  my  father,  you  have 
made  no  sacrifice  to  which  your  friends  can  object ;  tell 
me,"  he  rejoined,  taking  both  her  hands  and  looking  full 
in  her  face.  "  Florence  I  must  have  an  answer,  if  yon 
would  not  destroy  my  new-found  happiness  at  once." 

"  Be  answered,  then,"  she  said;  "  I  have  both  the  con- 
sent and  assistance  of  my  friends  in  all  that  I  have  done. 
And  for  your  father,  judge  him  not  harshly ;  I  am  sure  he 
loves  you — seeks  but  your  happiness.  Now,  will  you  be 
satisfied,"  she  added,  smiling,  "  or  must  I  name  the  portion 
I  have  settled  on  your  bride  ?" 

"  Perish  the  thought  I"  indignantly  burst  from  Howard. 
*'  I  would  that  she  had  none,  none  but  her  own  lovely 
face,  and  lovelier  mind  ;  that  the  world  might  know  there 
is  one  heart  that  can  enshrine  affection  without  a  thought 
of  that  hated  frame- work — gold  !" 

The  first  dinner-bell  sounding  at  that  moment,  saved 
Floi-ence  all  reply,  Many  of  Lady  St.  Maur's  guests  being 
eager  to  welcome  and  converse  with  her,  it  was  no  very 
great  matter  of  surprise  that  she  should  leave  Frank  and 
Minie  to  their  own  happiness,  and  find  a  seat  during  the 
remauider  of  the  evening  elsewhere. 

It  was  a  joyous  evening  in  the  halls  of  Amersley. 
Frank  was  so  universally  beloved,  that  the  ban  being  re- 
moved from  his  happiness  was  a  source  of  real  rejoicing. 
The  hours  sped  in  the  dance  and  song ;  though  both 
grated  somewhat  harshly  on  the  feelings  of  the  noble 
hostess,  for  she  knew  how  they  must  fall  on  the  heart  of 
one  in  that  lordly  room.  She  looked  towards  her  friend, 
often  tremblingly  ;  but  there  was  still  a  smile  on  her  pale 
lip,  and  her  eye  was  radiant.  Was  it  but  excitement  ?  or 
would  indeed  her  noble  spirit  carry  her  throughout,  and 
create  its  own  reward  ?  She  did  not  dance  ;  but  for  that 
her  late  illness  was  sufficient  excuse,  and  it  ehcited  no 
remark.     Sir  Ronald  Elliott  preferred  remaining  by  her 


woman's  friendship.  '      313 

side,  defending  himself  against  all  the  raillery  of  his  com- 
panions by  declaring  the  dance  was  too  landsman  and  too 
savage  an  exercise  for  him  ;  and  Florence  alternately  con- 
versed with  him  and  others  of  the  elder  guests,  with  all 
her  wonted  calm  and  earnest  manner,  on  various  subjects, 
the  whole  evening. 

The  25th  of  March  had  been  fixed  for  Lady  Mary's 
wedding-day,  and  Frank  was  eloquent  in  his  entreaties 
that  Minie  would  consent  to  become  his  on  the  same 
morning.  Lord  Glenvylle  (to  whom  Frank  had  flown  on 
the  wings  of  gratitude  the  day  following  Florence's  le- 
turn)  was  anxious  for  the  speedy  solemnization  of  his  son's 
happiness.  Lady  Mary  and  Melford  seconded  his  en- 
treaties, laughingly  desiring  the  eclat  of  a  double  marriage ; 
and  Florence,  when  appealed  to  by  her  blushing  and 
trembling  sister,  advised  the  granting  her  lover's  request. 
It  was  not  quite  a  year  after  their  mother's  death,  but 
60  near  it  that  the  pleading  another  month  of  mourning 
had  little  effect  on  Frank's  impatience.  The  25th  of  March, 
then,  was  the  day  fixed ;  and,  as  Lady  Mary  was  to  be 
married  from  her  father's  house  in  London,  whither  they 
adjourned  after  leaving  Amersley,  Florence  determined  on 
takmg  a  house  in  town  for  the  two  following  months,  tha- 
her  sister's  elegant  trousseau  might  be  prepared  togethei 
with  Lady  Mary's,  and  all  things  relative  to  her  marriage 
be  conducted  with  the  refined  taste  natural  to  Florence, 
and  demanded  by  Minie 's  future  prospects. 

Lord  and  Lady  St.  Maur  expected  to  be  in  London 
about  the  middle  of  February,  and  directly  after  her 
sister's  marriage  Florence  was  to  return  to  them.  More 
than  this  Minie  did  not  require,  satisfied  with  her  sister's 
assurance  that  she  should  not  be  lonely — that  in  all  she  had 
done  she  had  secured  her  individual  happiness  as  far  as  it 
lay  in  her  own  power.  Vainly  Minie  remonstrated  that  the 
rich  materials  selected  for  her  trousseau — the  elegant  though 
simple  ornaments  which  Florence  presented  to  her,  were 
un suited  to  her  station. 

"  Unsuited,  and  you  the  sister  of  an  heiress  I  about  to 
be  the  bride  of  the  heir  to  a  Viscountcy.  Shame  on  you, 
dearest.  I  will  not  permit  you  to  dispute  my  taste.  As 
long  as  you  are  under  my  roof,  you  must  submit  to  my 

27 


314        *  woman's    FRIENDSHir 

authority.  When  you  leave  that  for  the  home  of  youi 
husband,  my  beloved  girl,  spare  me  but  your  afTection  ;  let 
no  circumstance,  no  accident  come  between  my  memory 
and  your  heart,  and  I  will  ask  no  more." 

"  Spare  you  my  affection  !  Florence,  dearest,  kindest ! 
can  you  think  that  aught  of  individual  joy  can  lessen  the 
ties,  or  diminish  the  affection  of  nearly  nineteen  years? 
Oh,  have  we  not  grown  from  childhood  to  youth  together? 
together  struggled  against  the  ills  of  life?  wept  each 
other's  sorrows,  shared  all  returning  joys?  Have  I  not 
ever  looked  up  to  you  as  even  more  than  a  sister,  and  you 
on  me  as  combining  child  and  sister  both  ?  Love  !  ch, 
imtil  death  !  no  image,  not  even  of  husband  or  child,  can 
come  between  us,  Florence  !"  and  overpowered  with  un- 
usual emotion,  Minie  flung  herself  impetuously  into  her  Bis- 
ter's arms,  and  wept. 


CHAPTER  LI. 

THE    DEED     OF     GIFT. 


It  was  over ;  that  day  of  smiles  and  tears,  too  full  of 
feehng  for  entire  joy,  too  twined  with  hope  to  be  all 
sadness.  YVe  leave  to  others,  more  experienced  in  such 
matters,  the  task  of  dilating  on  the  brilliant  coup  d'ceil 
which  St.  Margaret's  chapel,  "Westminster,  presented 
on  the  occasion  of  the  double  marriage  of  the  Right 
Honorable  Alfred  Melford  to  the  Lady  Mary  Yilliers, 
second  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Edgemere  ;  and  that  of 
the  Honorable  Francis  Howard,  M.  P.,  son  and  heir  to 
Viscount  Lord  Glenvylle,  with  Minie  Leslie,  younger 
daughter — so  Lord  St.  Maur  expressly  inserted  in  the 
Morning  Post — of  Edward  Leslie,  Esquire,  deceased. 
We  have  neither  time  nor  inclination  to '  enter  into  detail 
on  the  splendor  of  the  dresses,  the  noble  company,  most 
of  which  were  of  the  highest  and  lovehest  of  the  aristoc- 
racy ;  the  demeanor  of  the  brides,  and  of  their  respec- 
tive bridegrooms ;  the  refined  and  high-born  elegance  of 
the  elder  bride,  the  resplendent  loveliness  of  the  younger ; 


woman's  friendship.  '         315 

all  of  which  might  occupy  some  half-dozen  pages.  Suffice 
it  that  the  Morniiig  Post  and  Court  Journal  were  com- 
pelled to  banish  columns  of  irrelevant  matter,  and  disappoint 
some  dozen  eager  correspondents,  to  find  room  to  do  justice 
to  the  exciting  subject. 

From  the  hands  of  Lord  St.  Maur,  the  enraptured 
Howard  received  his  bride ;  and  close  by  the  side  of 
Minio,  to  whom  she  had  acted  the  part  alike  of  mother 
and  sister,  knelt  one  on  whom  alone,  midst  all  that  bril- 
liant assemblage,  the  Countess  St.  Maur's  thoughts  were 
fixed  ;  she  saw,  felt  but  for  her ;  yet  there  was  no  ex- 
pression in  those  gentle  features,  no  movement  in  that 
graceful  form,  which  could  account  for  such  anxious  thoughts. 
Grave  she  was,  and  pale ;  but  the  impressive  service 
in  which  her  young  sister  bore  a  part  so  important,  was 
sufficient  to  account  for  this  ;  her  whole  soul  was  wrapt  in 
prayer  for  Minie.  If  Howard's  name  mingled  in  those  fer- 
vent orisons,  if  his  happiness  were  besought,  together  with 
her  sister's,  was  it  marvel  ?  Had  they  not  become  one, 
and  could  the  bliss  of  one  henceforth  be  perfect,  distinct 
from  the  other  ?  No  !  she  looked  upon  the  two,  kneeling 
in  their  first  and  loveliest  prime,  beside  the  altar  ;  it 
was  her  work,  and  she  was  strengthened  to  endure 
it. 

The  wedding-breakfast,  which  might  rather  have  been 
termed  a  banquet  from  its  splendor,  was  at  Lord  Edge- 
mere's  ;  his  wife's  persuasions  having  overruled  Florence's 
desire  that  Minie  should  return  to  her  house  ;  the  wed- 
iing-party  would  by  such  arrangement,  Lady  Edgemere 
urged,  be  so  divided. 

Woodlands  had  been  prepared  for  Minie  and  Frank 
Florence  had  so  earnestlj'  entreated  them  to  make  that 
their  home,  at  least  for  a  time  after  their  marriage,  that 
they  had  willingly  accedea.  At  four  they  prepared  to  set 
ofT ;  and  then  it  was,  after  changing  her  sister's  bridal 
robe  for  her  travelling  costume,  (the  young  bridesmaids 
having  feelingly  retired,  to  leave  the  sisters  together  ere 
they  parted,)  that  Florence  placed  in  the  hand  of  Minie  a 
sealed  packet : — '*  Keep  it,  or  give  it  to  Frank's  care, 
dearest,"  she  said ;  "  and  a  day  or  two  hence  it  may  afford 
you    some  little  interest  to  examine  it.     Only  remember 


316  woman's   friendship. 

this  :  believe  not,  for  a  single  instant,  that  its  contents 
have  afibrded  me  a  moment's  regret,  still  less  a  moment's 
pain.  Solemnly  and  sacredly  1  assure  you  that  no  circum- 
stance in  my  whole  life  ever  afforded  me  the  satisfaction, 
the  happiness,  which  was  comprised  in  the  signing  of 
that  packet.  Tell  this  to  Frank,  and  conjure  him  from 
me  to  believe  this  attestation,  as  if  it  had  been  given  upon 
oath." 

Minie  had  no  time  to  answer,  save  by  the  tears,  half  of 
joy,  half  of  timidity,  which  still  kept  her  clinging  to  Flo- 
rence, even  after  her  toilet  Avas  concluded.  Frank  had 
come  to  seek  her ;  gently  he  detached  her  from  her 
sister's  fond  embrace,  bore  her  through  their  thronging 
friends,  and  placed  her  in  his  carriage  ;  but  then  for  a 
brief  minute  he  returned  ;  he  was  alone  .with  Florence, 
and  he  clasped  her  cold  hand  in  his  : — "  Farewell  I"  he 
said  with  emotion.  "  Florence,  we  shall  think  of  you  in 
our  happiness,  and  bless  you  for  its  bestowal.  My  sister 
now,  God  bless  you,  you  will  not  refuse  a  brother's  kiss." 
He  held  her  to  him,  and  printed  a  long  kiss  upon  her 
cheek ;  the  next  moment  he  was  gone.  Sister  !  brother  I 
the  words  thrilled  through  her,  as  spoken  by  some  other 
voice  than  man's  ;  the  room  began  to  reel  round.  But 
not  then  might  she  unloose  the  iron  chain  of  self-control ; 
she  heard  Lady  Mary  and  young  Melford  calHng  on  her 
name,  as  waiting  to  bid  her  farewell ;  and  she  obeyed  the 
summons  ;  she  mingled  with  the  world  again,  and  not  till 
eleven  o'clock  that  night  was  she  alone — alone. 

^  ^  w  w  ^ 

"  By  the  way,  Minie  love,  have  you  ever  examined  that 
mysterious  packet,  wliich  you  told  me  Florence  gave  you 
just  before  you  parted  ?"  inquired  Howard,  the  fourth 
morning  after  their  marriage.  Minie  was  looking,  if  possi- 
ble, lovelier  than  ever,  and  superintending,  with  newly  ac- 
quired dignity,  the  breakfast-table. 

"  Indeed  I  never  thought  of  it  again,"  was  the  reply. 
"  And  yet  I  ought  not  to  have  forgotten  it,  for  Florence 
seemed  so  anxious  that  we  should  not  blame  her  for  its 
contents.  What  can  it  be  ?  All  deeds  and  settlements, 
and  those  disagreeable  things,  were  concluded  before  we 
married,  were  they  not  ?" 


woman's  friendship.  317 

*'  Yes,  love  ;  so  I  hope  and  believe  ;  but  as  to  this 
packet  our  curiosity  may  easily  be  satisfied.  Where 
is  it  ?" 

"  In  my  dressing-case  ;  Jane  laiows.  Shall  I  ring,  and 
tell  her." 

"  No,  Mrs.  Howard,"  replied  her  husband,  laugliing ; 
and  putting  liis  arm  caressingly  round  her,  as  she  half 
sprung  up  ;  "  certainly  not,  while  I  am  by  to  ring  it  for 
you.  Will  you  never  learn  that  you  are  a  very  important 
personage  now — even  a  wife  ;  and  husbands,  young  ones 
more  especially,  are  bound  to  perform  such  little  offices. 
When  I  am  old  and  gouty,  you  shall  do  them  for  me." 

"  I  lui  afraid  that  I  shall  be  much  in  the  same  predica- 
ment, Frank  ;  and  then  what  will  become  of  us  ?"  she 
said,  laugliing.  "  I  will  tell  you,"  she  added  a  moment 
afterwards  ;  and  leaning  her  head  on  liis  shoulder,  she 
warbled  forth  with  mexpressible  sweetness  two  or  three 
verses  of  that  exquisite  ballad,  "  John  Anderson,  my 
Jo  ;"  so  entrancing  Frank,  that  the  packet  might  agam 
have  been  forgotten,  had  not  the  servant  entered  in  an- 
swer to  the  bell. 

At  length,  the  important  papers  made  their  appear- 
ance, and  Frank  carelessly  broke  the  seal,  Minie  leaning 
over  him  as  he  did  so. 

"  Why,  what  in  the  world  is  this  ;  a  la^vyer's  paper  ? 
I  thought  I  had  done  with  all  those  annoyances,"  was  his 
first  exclamation.  It  had  scarcely,  however,  escaped  his 
lips,  ere  it  gave  way  to  another,  in  wliich  Avonder  and 
regret  were  so  intimately  blended,  that  it  was  impossible 
to  distinguish  one  from  the  other. 

"  What,  after  all,  is  it,"  simply  asked  Minie,  "  that  can 
cause  you  so  much  agitation  ?" 

"  What  is  it,  dearest  ?"  he  replied,  much  moved, 
"  what  but  a  deed  of  gift,  making  you  heiress  of  Wood- 
lands and  all  its  extensive  possessions,  with  the  sole 
exception  of  a  paltry  five  hundred  a  year,  instead  of  your 
noble  sister  from  whom  it  comes.  All,  aU  is  made  over 
to  you,  wdthout  a  single  reservation  or  clause,  except  that 
which  I  have  named." 

"  Made  over  to  me  !  Making  me  heiress  instead  of 
Floience  :  No,  no.  Oli !  do  not,  pray  do  not  let  hei 
27* 


318  WOMAN    S     FRIENDSIIir. 

do  SO,"  answered  Minic,  entreatingly,  when  astonislimeiit 
permitted  licr  to  comprehend  the  truth.  "  Pray,  make 
her  take  it  back;  what  can  I  want  more  than  I  have? 
If  I  had  but  you  alone,  with  not  a  luxury  of  life,  with 
only  the  home  I  had  when  my  poor  brother  lived,  I 
should  be  happier,  richer,  more  to  be  envied  than  a 
crowned  queen  I  What  can  I  want  more,  m^y  ovra  dear, 
f^encrous  Florence  ?  Do  not  let  her  make  this  sacrifice. 
Why  should  she  have  done  it  ?" 

"  Why,  my  beloved  ?  Alas !  it  is  too  clear  now. 
Tliis  is  the  sacrifice  wliich  won  my  father's  oonsent.  You 
were  made  an  heiress,  and  of  course  his  prejudices  were 
all  removed.  Fool,  that  I  was,  not  to  suspect  something 
of  the  truth  !  Even  if  I  were  so  mistaken  in  my  father, 
as  to  relieve  for  a  moment  he  could  have  relented  with- 
out some  more  powerful  incentive  than  mere  eloquence, 
there  was  something  strange  about  the  manner  of  Lord 
St.  Maur  and  Lord  Edgemere,  which,  had  I  not  been  a 
dolt,  an  idiot,  must  have  awakened  my  suspicions.  No- 
ble, generous  Florence  !  what  do  we  not  owe  to  her  I" 

"  But  can  it  not,  in  part,  be  recalled  ;  must  we  perrmt 
the  sacrifice,  dearest  Franlc  ?  How  can  I  bear  to  feel  the 
wrong  she  has  done  herself  for  me  ?  Is  there  no  way  of 
eluding  this  deed  of  gift,  of  compelhng  her  to  recall  it  ?" 

"  None,  dearest ;  it  is  much  too  late  now.  See  hoAV 
long  ago  the  deed  was  drawai  up,  and  the  signature 
affixed — ever  smce  she  made  that  hasty  visit  to  London  ! 
Little  did  I  imagine  wherefore.  And  that  Lord  St.  Maur 
and  Lord  Edgemere  could  consent,  nay,  encourage  tliis,  by 
becoming  your  trustees  !  What  could  have  made  them  do  so  ?" 

"  My  sister's  persuasions,"  replied  Minie,  sorrowfully — 
"  their  behef  in  her  assertion  that  they  more  effectually 
secured  her  happiness  by  doing,  than  by  preventing  this. 
Oh,  I  know  her  so  weh  !  She  never  thought  a  moment 
9f  herself,  except  in  encouraging  the  behef  that  every 
sacrifice,  even  in  little  things,  was  greater  happiness  than 
the  doing  of  justice  to  herself.  And  she  believes,  feels 
all  she  professes  :  the  message  she  gave  me  for  you  when 
you  read  tliis  packet  proves  it." 

"  What  message  ?" 

She    repeated    it    as    it    had  been  given.     Frank  was 


woman's  fPwIendsiiip.  319 

deeply  affected,  and  compelled  to  be  convinced.  The 
manner  in  which  it  had  been  accompHshed,  the  absence 
of  all  display,  all  assumption  in  the  sacrifice,  the  secrecy 
m  which  it  had  been  carried  on,  did  but  enhance  its 
value ;  although  to  generous  natures,  every  individual 
benefxt  received  at  so  heavy  a  price,  must  be  intimately 
mingled  with  alloy. 

We  need  not  hnger  on  the  conversation  which  followed 
— how  FranI:  longed  to  travel  post  to  London,  and  speak 
with  Florence,  but  was  dissuaded  by  Minie,  who  in- 
tuitively felt  that,  to  her  sister's  sensitive  feelings,  such  a 
visit  would  give  more  pain  than  pleasure — how  he  at  that 
very  moment  made  the  resolution  that  the  first  hour  it 
was  in  his  power,  should  he  ever  become  Lord  Glenvylle, 
he  would  restore  Florence  the  heritage  she  had  resigned." 
Both  then  wrote,  pouring  out  all  their  hearts'  eloquence, 
to  Florence;  and  Howard  giving  vent  to  something  very 
like  indignation  to  both  the  trustees  of  his  wife,  for  per- 
mitting such  a  sacrifice.  With  regard  to  Lord  Glenvylle, 
Frank's  emotions  were  almost  all  full  of  bitterness.  We 
may  here  state,  that  m  the  very  next  interview  he  had 
with  his  father,  Frank  did  speak  much  more  reproach- 
fully than  his  wont,  but  received  little  satisfaction  from 
the  doing  so,  except  the  conviction  that,  if  the  deed  of 
gift  had  not  been  made,  Mmie  could  not,  in  his  father's 
life-time  at  least,  have  JDecome  his  wife.  That  this  truth 
did  much  towards  reconciling  him  to  the  acceptance  of 
the  sacrifice  may  be  beheved ;  but  while  it  increased  his 
veneration  and  regard  for  the  bestower,  it  certainly  could 
not  soften  his  feehngs  towards  the  demander,  or  enable 
him  more  clearly  ta  understand  the  latter' s  ever-mcom- 
prehensible  character. 

It  so  happened  tha'  Florence's  unexpressed,  but  most 
earnest  wishes  were  gratified.  She  did  not  see  Howard 
and  his  young  bride  in  the  first  excitement  of  their 
ardent  gratitude.  Frank  had  been  appointed  envoy  ex- 
traordinary to  the  court  of  Hanover,  on  a  mission  likely 
to  detain  him  there  till  autumn  ;  permission  for  his  bride 
to  accompany  him  had  been  graciously  accorded,  but  so 
sudden  was  the  nomination,  and  its  attendant  removal, 
\hat  notwithstanding  all   their   exertion,  to  Minie's  great 


320  woman's     FRIENDSHir. 

grief,  they  were  compelled  to  embark  without  visiting 
Ainersley,  where  Florence  then  was  with  Lady  Helen  :  she 
had  preferred  returning  to  the  country  to  remaming  in 
London  with  the  Earl  and  Countess,  both  being  then 
much  engaged,  and  before  Fraidt  and  Minie  had  returned 
from  Germany,  Florence  had  left  England. 


CHAPTER  UI. 

ON    THE    SEA. — TO   ITALY. — RESIGNATION. A    CHEERING    RAT. 

Gorgeously  and  majestically  an  August  s.ui  was  sink- 
ing within  the  blue  waters  of  the  placid  Mediterranean, 
the  evening  on  which  we  resume  the  fast-decreasing  thread 
of  our  narrative  ;  blue  waters  in  such  an  hour,  indeed, 
they  were  not ;  for  their  unruffled,  tideless  expanse,  gave 
back  with  fidelity,  magnificent  as  the  original,  every  glow- 
ing tint  of  the  sunset  sky.  There  was  a  stillness  in  the 
atmosphere,  unconsciously  whispering  peace  ;  and  even 
when  broken  by  the  sounds  of  music  floating  from  yatcli 
or  frigate — for  it  seemed  to  unite  the  characteristics  of  the 
two — the  calm  was  rather  deepened  than  disturbed.  The 
little  breeze  there  was  filled  the  snow-wliite  sails,  and  the 
gallant  vessel  scudded  over  the  waves,  leaving  behind  her 
a  line  as  of  silver  to  mark  her  onward  track.  She  was 
evidently  EngHsh  built,  and  English  manned,  and  from 
the  excessive  neatness  of  her  decks,  the  beauty  and  order 
of  her  riggmg,  and  those  many  nameless  little  things  ob- 
servable only  in  well-appointed  ships,  appeared  the  pride 
and  gloiy  alike  of  her  captain  and  her  crew.  There  was 
a  gay,  strip'^d  awjiing  over  the  quarter-deck,  where  couches 
and  chairs  were  scattered.  A  band  of  wind-instruments 
occupied  the  forecastle,  ever  and  anon  sending  forth  strains 
which  called  back  dear  old  England,  and  the  musical 
novelties  of  the  past  season.  A  group  of  young  midship- 
men, variously  employed,  now  assembled  midM^ay,  nea? 
the  band  ;  while  other  of  the  officers,  and  gentlem.en  of 
Lord  St.  Maur's  suite,  were  indiscriminately  scattered  on 
the  quarter-deck,,    and,    arm-in-arrn,    earnestly   conversing 


woman's  friendship.  3^23 

as  tliey  paced  up  and  down,  were  the  Earl  himself  and  the 
captain  of  this  gallant  little  frigate,  Sir  Ronald  Elliott. 

On  one  of  the  couches  lay  Florence  Leslie,  pale,  atten 
uated,  yet  with  an  expression  of  such  deep  repose  upon 
her  features,  that  it  seemed  as  if,  indeed,  the  inward  tem- 
pest had  been  stilled,  and  all  was  once  more  peace.  No 
visible  illness  had  attacked  her  since  her  sister's  marriage, 
but  strength  and  flesh  had  so  dwindled,  that  she  had  been 
compelled  to  give  up  one  employment  after  another,  until 
at  length  she  could  not  leave  the  drawing-room,  save  for 
her  own  apartment ;  yet  so  far  was  she  from  feeling  ill 
that  she  had  striven  long  with  Lady  St.  Maur's  desire  to 
have  advice,  and  only  consented  in  order  to  please  her 
friend.  Sir  Charles  had  recommended  very  easy  travel- 
ling to  another  more  genial  climate,  and  a  sea- voyage,  could 
they  but  insure  one  of  even  temperature  and  without 
storms.  Every  one  laughed  at  him  but  Sir  Ronald  Elliott, 
who  instantly  proposed  fitting  out  a  sort  of  frigate-yacht, 
which  he  would  convey  round  to  the  south  of  France, 
where  they  might  join  him  by  very  easy  stages  through 
that  country  ;  and  a  cruise  on  the  Mediterranean,  touching 
at  those  ports  where  there  was  any  thing  worth  seeing  ; 
this  excursion  combining  a  residence  for  a  short  period  in 
Italy,  and,  if  still  necessary,  a  further  cruise  in  the  Adriatic, 
would  be,  he  was  certain,  more  beneficial  than  any  other 
change.  Sir  Charles  warmly  approved  the  plan,  declaring 
it  would  be  almost  as  good  for  Lord  St.  Maur  as  for  Flo- 
rence herself ;  for,  however  brave  and  strong  the  former 
might  consider  himself,  he  would  be  all  the  better  for  leav- 
ing England  and  her  politics,  and  revelling  for  a  time  in  all 
the  dolcefar  niente  of  fair  Italy. 

It  so  chanced  that  Lord  St.  Maur  could  at  that  time 
easily  obtain  leave  of  absence,  and,  to  the  astonishment  of 
all  his  friends,  he  was  most  particularly  anxious  to  revijii' 
Italy  for  a  short  interval. 

Italy !  would  Florence  indeed  visit  Italy  ?  her  birtb 
place,  the  land  associated  with  so  many  day-dreams  of  he; 
happiest  youth  ;  but  now  subject  to  almost  of  horror,  as- 
sociated as  it  was  with  the  fatal  secret  of  her  birth.  She 
knew  not  if  the  proposal  were  one  of  pain  or  pleasure  ; 
but  the  conviction  that  she  had  friends  so  anxious  to  re- 


322  woman's   friendship. 

store  her  to  health,  so  eager  to  welcome  Sir  Ronald's  pro 
posal,  could  not  but  Aveigh  poAverfully  with  a  disposition 
such  as  hers,  and  incline  her  to  whatever  their  will  might 
be.  That  there  were  times  when  she  felt  she  was  leav- 
ing England  to  die,  was  only  natural  to  her  state  of  health  ; 
but  even  in  this  thought  there  was  no  bitterness.  Her 
countenance  told  no  false  tale  ;  her  mind,  yes,  and  her 
heart  were  both  at  rest.  If  it  were  her  Father's  will  that 
life,  not  death,  should  be  her  portion,  she  felt  no  longer,  as 
she  had  dons,  that  earth  was  but  a  bleak,  cold  desert. 
No,  that  life  could  never  be  to  her  v/hat  it  had  beer 
she  did  think,  but  yet  it  might  be  one  of  doing  if  not  of 
receiving  good,  of  loving  if  not  of  being  loved.  She  had 
not  prayed  in  vain.  She  could  think  of  Howard,  as  the 
husband  of  Minie,  calmly,  even  thankfully.  She  had 
been  permitted  to  conquer  that  passion  which  had  been 
once  so  powerful  ;  she  felt,  indeed,  that  her  heart  had 
been  too  scorched  and  seared  for  the  flower  of  a  second 
love  ever  to  find  resting-place.  She  was  at  peace,  willing 
to  live  or  die,  whichever  a  wiser,  kinder  Power  willed  ; 
praying  but  that  the  mystery  of  her  birth  might  be  dis- 
pelled, that  that  birth  might  be  legitimate,  and  not  another 
blessing  could  she  find  need  to  seek.  And  smiles  were  on 
her  lip  as  she  lay  conversing  on  many  mutual  topics  of 
interest  with  the  Countess  St.  Maur,  sometimes  pausing 
to  share  by  her  caresses,  and  notice  the  unalloyed  enjoy- 
ment of  the  lovely  children,  who  were  alternately  lingering 
by  their  mother,  or  circled  around  the  young  lady,  who, 
as  Constance's  instructress,  had  made  her  way  to  the 
hearts  of  all.  And  who  was  that  tall,  fair,  gentle  girl, 
who  seemed  ever  on  the  alert  to  add  to  Miss  Leslie's  com- 
fort, to  read  to  her,  talk  to  her,  embroider  for  her,  bring 
her  every  thing  she  needed,  and  linger  by  her,  even  when 
her  younger  and  merrier  companions  called  on  her  to  join 
their  dance  and  noisy  plays  ;  seeming,  too,  to  find  such  real 
pleasure  in  those  little  attentions,  that  Lady  St.  Maur's 
warm  smile  of  approbation,  though  often  bestowed,  was 
no  longer  needed  to  incite  them  ?  Could  this  be  the  proud, 
the  overbearing  Constance  St.  Maur,  who  had  once  looked 
on  Florence  with  such  scorn  and  dislike  because  she  had 
been  her  governess  ?     It  was  even  so.      Example   eve,". 


woman's  friendship.  323 

more  than  precept  had  ^vrolIght  this  change.  She  had  i.  ever 
been  a  stupid  child,  and  since  her  residence  with  Lady  St. 
Maur,  circumstances  had  passed  before  her,  which,  although 
not  entirely  understood,  had  yet  brought  much  to  her  com- 
prehension, which  mere  precept  had  required  a  longer  period 
to  effect. 

Lady  Helen  St.  Maur  had  hesitated  some  little  time  be- 
tween accompanying  her  children,  or  accepting  Lady  Edge- 
mere's  eagerly-pressed  invitation  to  reside  with  them  till  the 
Earl's  return,  and  at  last  acceded  to  the  latter — her  ad- 
vancing age  rendering  travelling  and  a  voyage  less  agretable 
than  they  had  been  a  few  years  previously. 

"  I  really  do  regret  you  could  not  succeed  in  persuading 
Emily  to  join  us,"  observed  Florence,  after  a  pause,  and 
perceiving  the  Countess  had  laid  down  her  book;  "she  must 
have  enjoyed  this.     Why  v^ould  she  not  come  ?" 

She  was  too  weak,  too  ill,  could  not  bear  the  water. 
Wondered  how  any  body  could  think  of  venturing,  and  felt 
quite  sure  that  she  could  not  endure  the  excitement,  and 
fatigue,  and  all  the  nameless  dangers  of  Italian  travelling. 
"  Now  do  not  look  at  me  half  frightened  that  I  am  going  to 
turn  serious,"  she  added,  laughing  ;  "  Emily  has  grieved  and 
disappointed  me  too  much  for  any  such  amusement.  Do 
not,  however,  waste  any  regrets  on  her  ;  her  mind  has  been 
too  long  warped  by  frivolity  and  vacuity  to  enjoy  such  pleas- 
ures as  these.  For  Mary  and  Alfred  I  do  wish  ;  and  he 
was  excessively  provoking  for  being  so  much  engaged  just 
at  the  very  time  we  wanted  them." 

"But  they  are  so  happy  in  each  other  ;  so  actively  em- 
ployed, it  would  have  been  but  exchange  of  pleasure  for 
them.  Now,  Emily  really  might  have  derived  more  than 
mere  temporary  advantage.  The  change  must  have  done 
her  good." 

"  Only  while  it  lasted.  When  I  first  returned  to  Eng- 
land, I  did  indulge  the  hope  of  rousing  her  into  exertion. 
I  could  not  believe  that  five  years  had  so  completely  ruined 
all  which  I  thought  would  have  led  to  good.  It  makes 
me  almost  tremble  when  I  think  how  she  wastes  existence. 
At  first  she  read  to  please  me,  but  to  what  purpose  ?  Hei 
eye  glanced  over  the  page,  but  her  mind  retained  nothing  ; 
and  as  for  bringing  any  sentiment  or  reflection  home,  I 


324       *  woman's   friendship. 

soon  found  it  was  worse  than  idle  to  attempt  it.  No  ;  1 
have  done  wliat  I  can,  and  I  despair  of  efTecting  any  altera* 
tion  now.  She  will  pass  through  life  like  too  many  others, 
reading  novels  and  working  Berlin  wool." 

"  Unless  she  marries.  If  she  could  but  come  out  of  her- 
self for  another — in  other  words,  really  love." 

"  Love,  my  dear  Florence !  In  your  meaning  of  the 
word,  Emily  could  never  love.  Had  she  been  united, 
earlier,  to  some  really  worthy  man,  her  character  might 
have  altered  ;  now,  even  marriage  would  fail.  She  would 
never  come  out  of  herself,  as  you  express  it ;  and,  unless 
she  did  so,  as  a  married  woman  she  might  exist  as  she  does 
now  ;  but  live  happily  and  beneficially  for  herself  and  others, 
I  very  much  doubt." 

"  And  yet  she  seems  to  me  to  have  had  so  little  of  real 
misfortune ;  it  is  strange  that  her  life  should  be  so  cheer- 
less." 

"  Hardly  strange.  It  is  almost  a  pity  she  has  never 
had  any  thing  like  trial  to  encounter.  Her  education  made 
her  artificial ;  but  I  did  once  think  she  possessed  the  germ 
of  higher  qualities  and  powers  ;  which,  had  they  been 
called  forth,  might  have  made  her  a  very  different  being. 
A  single  woman  must  often  tnahe  objects  of  interest  to 
prevent  the  too  great  ascendancy  of  self,  and  that  requires 
intellect  and,  yet  more,  energy.  With  her  sisters  she  ha& 
little  in  common,  but  her  brothers  are  both  superior  young 
men,  and  their  famihes  might  have  been  real  sources  of 
mterest  to  her.  It  is  not  those  who  have  endured  misfor- 
tune, and  endured  it  nobly,  who  are  the  most  miserable 
themselves,  or  by  whom  the  world  is  most  darkly  judged  ; 
it  is  those  who  vegetate  like  Emily,  whose  greatest  solace 
is  a  novel,  whose  highest  ambition  is  to  be  the  first  pos- 
sessox'  of  a  new  pattern  for  embroidery ;  who  look  on  this 
beautiful  earth  as  dark  and  sinful,  and  disbelieve,  as 
romantic  folly,  all  the  tales  of  self-denial,  high  enterprise, 
and  moral  good,  which  they  hear.  Oh,  beheve  me,  dearest 
Florence — to  you  I  may  say  it,  for  you  must  feel  its  truth — 
that  real  trials,  nobly  borne,  are  no  subjects  for  pity  ;  it  is 
for  those  who  fritter  hfe  away,  as  if  it  had  no  end,  no 
goal,  naught  but  the  present  pleasm'e,  which  fhes  ere  it  \s 
clasped." 


woman's  friendship.  325 

While  such  conversation  was  passing  between  the 
Countess  and  Florence — recorded  only  that  our  readers 
may  not  accuse  us  of  entirely  forgetting  Emily  Melford — 
another  of  more  real  importance  to  our  heroine  was  en- 
grossing the  two  gentlemen  already  noticed,  Sir  Ronald 
Elliott  and  Lord  St.  Maur. 

"  You  do  wrong,  my  good  friend,  indeed  you  dc  /'  the 
l^-tter  was  urging,  at  the  moment  when  we  take  "t  up,  "  to 
jncourage  such  feelings  after  all  I  have  told  you  ;  they  can 
bring  but  misery." 

"  Misery  I  to  love  such  a  being,  St.  Maur  ?"  was  the 
sailor's  impetuous  reply.  "  Granted,  that  I  do  love  alone 
as  yet,  that  I  am  resolved  she  shall  never  know,  never 
dream  how  I  have  dared  to  love,  till  she  is  in  health  and 
happiness  ;  till  there  is  a  chance,  however  faint,  of  a  re- 
turn. What  misery,  what  harm  can  there  be  in  loving, 
when  every  thought  devoted  to  her  makes  me  a  better 
and  a  nobler  man  ?  I  feel  a  new  creature  since  my  wild 
dreams  of  woman's  loveliness  and  gentleness  and  magna- 
nimity, and  a  host  of  household  virtues,  have  all  found 
embodiment  in  her.  Leave  me  to  my  heart's  beautiful 
image,  my  good  lord  ;  to  love  such  a  being  can  never  do 
me  harm." 

"  All  very  fine  and  heroic,  E-onald,  no  doubt  ;  but  yet 
I  uphold  that  to  encourage  a  feeling  which  I  more  than 
fear  must  be  utterly  hopeless,  is  more  unwise  than  I  gave 
you  credit  for  being.  Think  you  that  you  will  always  be 
satisfied  to  gaze  and  worship  as  you  do  now  ?  Never  long 
for  more  ?  and  despair  that  more  is  not  given,  but  always 
be  content  to  worship,  though  to  your  divinity  herself  your 
worsnip  is  unknown  ?" 

"  St.  Maur  !  I  would  not  lose  my  present  emotions, 
were  they  to  be  paid  foT  by  years  of  torment.  I  am  ns 
romantic  idiot,  though  you  look  very  much  as  if  you  thought 
me  one  ;  yet,  believe  me,  I  would  not  have  that  gloricua 
creature  suspect  that  I  dare  love  her  now — no  I  not  for 
worlds.  I  could  not  meet  her  look  of  sorrowing  regret, 
for,  presumptuous  as  I  am,  she  would  give  me  nothing 
more  severe.  I  should  deserve  to  lose  her,  did  I  dare  bring 
myself  forward  at  such  a  moment,  wrapt  as  she  is  in  hei 
own  sorrows." 

28 


326  v/oman's   friendship. 

"  You  are  a  strange  fellow,  Ronald  ;  have  you  learned  all 
these  high-flown  notions  on  the  high  seas  ?  If  so,  I  will 
send  my  Cecil  there  directly  he  is  old  enough.  Now  don't 
look  reproachfully  !  I  would  not  jest  with  you  on  such  a 
topic  for  the  world  ;  but  do  you  remember  all  ?  I  have 
told  you  much  which  would  withhold  many  another  man." 

"  What  have  you  told  me  ?— ^that  there  is  mystery  on 
her  birth  ;  and  it  may  be  that  which  the  world  brands 
with  shame  ;  and  you  believe  that  can  weigh  with  me,  can 
fling  a  dark  shadow  on  the  beautiful  mmd  which  that 
gentle  form  enshrines  ? — that  I  can  think  one  moment  on 
aught  of  mysteiy  when  I  look  on  her,  and  see  truth, 
purity,  honor,  gleaming  up  through  the  crystal  of  her 
heart  as  clearly  as  I  have  seen  the  rich  coral-reef  and 
golden  sands  shining  through  the  still,  blue  ocean,  though 
they  lay  full  many  a  fathom  deep  ?  You  hint  that  she 
has  loved  unhappily,  and  therefore  I  never  can  obtain  the 
heart's  first  freshness,  which  my  love  deserves.  Let  her 
give  me  its  regard,  its  confidence  ;  I  ask  not  passion,  only 
aflection.  I  will  wait  years,  long  years,  I  care  not  how  long, 
so  she  be  mine  at  last !  That  she  is  no  heiress  now,  has 
resigned  all  but  a  mere  pittance.  Aye,  it  was  that  very 
deed  which  first  awoke  me  into  consciousness,  telling  me  I 
reverenced — I  worshiped  her  !" 

"  All  very  hkely,  and  most  eloquently  expressed,  friend 
Ronald  ;  but  it  says  nothing  as  to  the  wisdom  of  the  thing. 
Your  every  word  betrays  that  you  do  hope  ;  and  when  I 
warn  you  that  it  must  end  in  misery,  you  tell  me  it  can  not, 
as  you  are  content  to  worship  as  you  do  now  without  hope 
— ^to  love  unsuspected  and  unknown ;  something  rather 
contradictory,  my  good  friend.  However,  lovers'  feelings 
are  always  mysteries  ;  mine  were  once,  I  suppose,  though 
I  found,  to  my  cost,  that  loving  without  hope  was  not  a 
thing  to  thrive  on  I  wonder  if  those  madcaps  yonder  are 
fighting  for  love." 

"  Fighting  1  and  in  my  presence  !"  exclaimed  Sir  Ronald ; 
and  still  arm-in-arm  Avith  the  Earl,  he  hastened  to  that  part 
of  the  deck  which  we  have  mentioned  as  occupied  by  some 
young  midshipmen,  two  of  whom  from  a  storm  of  words 
had  come  to  a  yet  thicker  storm  of  blows. 

Sir  Ronald's  imperative  voice  parted  them,  and  one,  the 


woman's  friendship.  327 

taller  and  evidently  the  more  incensed  of  the  two,  slunk 
aside,  as  conscious  of  the  weakness  of  his  own  cause  ; 
while  the  other  a  sturdy  handsome  boy,  much  his  youngtr, 
stood  boldly  forward,  crossing  his  arms  on  his  chest, 
casting  a  contemptuous  glance  on  his  adversary,  and 
meeting  his  commander's  half-reproving  look  vdih  a  good- 
tempered  yet  respectful  smile.  He  was  silent,  however, 
until  Sir  Uonald,  finding  it  impossible  to  obtain  a  com.- 
prehensible  answer  from  the  elder,  who  stood  twirling  hid 
hands  together  and  shifting  his  feet  in  Bvery  position  but 
that  of  a  man,  turned  to  him  and  demanded  the  cause  of 
such  unusual  disrespect. 

"  Why,  if  you  please,  sir,  Mr.  Stanley  there,  chose  to 
insult  me,  as  not  fit  company  for  such  as  he,  bemg  you 
see  a  sprig  of  nobility,  and  I  a  poor  lieutenant's  son  ;  and  I, 
not  quite  comprehending  such  distinctions,  gave  him  a  good 
bit  of  my  mind,  wliich  you  see  he  did  not  like,  and  so  it 
came  to  blows." 

"  And  what  did  you  tell  him,  my  boy  ?"  asked  Lord  St. 
Maur,  laughing. 

"  Only,  my  lord,  that  I  saw  nothing  in  a  nobleman  more 
than  in  a  gentleman,  except  according  to  his  conduct ;  that 
if  relationship  to  nobility  makes  the  man,  why  I  might 
claim  the  hke,  being  connected  with  some  lord  or  other,  of 
whom  I  know  not  even  the  name — so  much  good  his  bemg 
a  lord  has  done  our  family  ;  and  what's  more,  my  grand- 
father disclaimed  the  relationship  years  ago,  because  of 
Bomethmg  or  other  wrong,  which  caused  a  change  of  name  ; 
and  I  M'ould  not  give  up  mine,  of  centuries  standing,  for  his 
new-fangled  one  and  the  title  too." 

'•  Most  clearly,  comprehensively  explained,  young  man," 
replied  the  Earl,  still  laughing.  "  One  thing  only  I  can 
comprehend,  that  you  are  a  fine  high-spirited  fellow,  look- 
uig  on  nobility  in  its  proper  light,  man  making  nobility, 
not  nobility  the  man.  Yon  have  the  best  of  it  in  argument, 
and  I  rather  think  the  force  of  it  in  blows." 

The  lad  bowed  respectfully,  looking  very  much  as  if, 
however  low  his  opinion  of  nobihty  in  general.  Lord  St. 
Maur  was  an  exception. 

*'  Who  is  that  fine  youngster,  Elhott  ?"  inqmred  the 
Earl,  as  he  resumed  his  walk  with  his  friend. 


328  woman's  friendship. 

"  The  grandson  of  as  noble  and  free-spirited  an  old 
man  as  ever  chanced  to  cross  my  path;  he  is  a  clergyman 
of  Yorkshire,  whose  only  daughter  married  a  poor  lieu- 
tenant, a  messmate  of  mine,  now  disabled  and  retired,  and 
living  on  half-pay  with  his  wife  and  her  father.  He  Ma^oto 
to  me,  hearing  of  my  return  and  promotion,  entreating  me 
to  use  my  influence  in  getting  a  berth  for  his  son,  who  was 
absolutely  pining  for  the  sea.  To  his  father's  great  delight, 
I  placed  him  under  my  own  eye  ;  he  is  a  spirited  fellow, 
like  his  father.'"' 

"  But  his  name  ?" 

"  Philip  Neville  Hamilton." 

"  Neville  !"  repeated  the  Earl. 

"  Yes  ;  after  liis  grandfather,  who,  proud  of  his  old  family 
name,  and  always  disappointed  that  he  had  not  a  son  to 
carry  it  on,  gave  it  to  his  grandson,  who  you  have  seen  is 
equally  proud  of  it.  What  he  means  by  a  lord  and  a  new- 
fangled title,  I  cannot  comprehend." 

"  Do  you  think  he  does  himself  ?" 

"  I  really  cannot  tell.  But  you  seem  agitated,  my  good 
friend  I     *  What's  in  a  name  ?'  " 

"  May  be  more  in  this  instance  than  appears,  Ronald,  I 
am  under  a  vow  not  to  let  any  one  who  bears  the  name  of 
Neville  pass  unquestioned." 

Lord  St.  Maur's  attention,  once  aroused,  permitted  no 
delay.  Early  the  following  morning  Mr.  Hamilton  was 
summoned  to  his  cabin,  and  a  long  private  interview  fol- 
lowed. Though  apt  and  quick  enough,  the  boy  could  not 
give  all  the  particulars  which  were  asked.  He  only  kncAV 
that  when  he  was  longing  to  go  to  sea,  his  father  had 
spoken  to  his  grandfather  about  seeking  the  interest  of 
some  lord,  with  whom  they  were  connected,  but  that  Mr. 
Neville  had  solemnly  declared  he  would  not ;  he  would 
rather  see  his  family  starve  than  have  any  thing  to  do  with 
one  whose  conduct  had  been  such  that  the  very  name  had 
been  dropped.  That  he  (Philip)  had  been  so  excited  by 
this  conversation,  he  had  appealed  to  his  mother  for  further 
information,  but  she  had  told  him  little  more.  The  very 
title  he  did  not  know  ;  it  had  come  into  the  family  only 
some   twenty   or   tliirty  years.     That  when  there  was  a 


woman's  friendship.  329 

chance  of  the  succession,  some  near  relation  of  his  grand- 
father, uncle,  or  cousin,  ashamed  of  the  stigma  attached  to 
the  name  by  the  conduct  of  his  son,  the  present  lord,  had 
expended  an  immense  sum  of  money  in  changing  it,  and  so 
all  trace  of  the  family  connection  was  lost.  So  much  his 
mother  had  imparted,  with  an  earnest  injunction  that  he 
would  never  allude  to  this  nobleman  again. 

Lord  St.  Maur  listened  as  one  in  a  trance,  feeling  con- 
vinced that  he  had  either  actually  heard,  or  vividly  dreamed 
a  tale  like  this  before  ;  he  racked  his  memory  till  his  brain 
ached,  to  discover  where,  by  whom  related,  or  to  wK^m 
applied.  Still,  not  to  depend  alone  on  his  own  reminis- 
cences, he  wrote  to  Mr.  Neville,  entreating  him  as  ae 
valued  the  chance  of  doing  good,  and  restoring  peace,  to 
write  to  him  all  particulars  of  this  little  connection,  if, 
as  from  Philip's  words  he  suspected,  he  had  once  borne 
the  name  of  Neville,  who  and  what  he  had  been,  and 
what  were  his  present  name  and  title.  This  he  placed 
within  a  letter  from  Philip,  who  told  of  his  own  accord 
how  deeply,  almost  painfully.  Lord  St.  Maur  had  been  in- 
terested in  the  name,  and  then  inclosed  them  both  in  a 
packet  about  to  be  dispatched  to  Lord  Edgemere.  In 
writing  that  nobleman's  name,  a  flash  of  light  darted 
through  the  Earl's  mind,  illuminating  like  electricity  everj 
link  of  memory.  It  was  from  Lord  Edgemere  he  had  heard 
a  similar  tale  on  the  night  of  his  return  to  England  ;  and 
of  whom  had  they  been  speaking  ?  Lord  St.  Maur  abso- 
lutely started  from  his  chair  in  the  strong  agitation  which 
the  mental  answer  excited.  Could  it  be  ?  Was  it  possi- 
ble ?  If  SO;  with  what  infinite  mercy  had  Providence 
interposed.  It  required  an  effort,  even  to  his  strong  mind, 
while  laboring  under  these  thoughts,  to  retain  his  usual 
calm  exterior  before  his  wife  and  Florence.  Yet  he  kept 
his  secret  even  from  the  Countess,  fearing  to  excite  hopes 
which  after  all  might  not  be  realized.  In  his  own  mind, 
however,  he  felt  convinced  that,  as  very  often  happens, 
(though  the  skeptic  world  denies  it,  as  visionary  folly,)  the 
simplest  chance,  in  this  case  the  quarrel  of  two  boys,  would 
unravel  the  painful  web  of  mystery,  which  it  had  appeared 
inly  a  miracle  could  solve. 

We  are  wrong  to  say  chance.     In  a  government  of  love 
28* 


330  woman's   friendship. 

there  is  no  chance  ;  a  Father's  hand  rules  our  dtjstiny,  and 
turns  even  the  most  adverse  circumstances  (in  seeming)  tc 
tlie  furthermff  of  His  own  immortal  will. 


CHAPTER  Lin. 

RETURNING    HEALTH. — THE    CASKET   FOUND. 

The  business  with  which  Sir  Ronald  Elliott  was  intrusted 
by  government  (for  he  combined  two  things  in  this  trip  of 
pleasure)  led  him  to  Constantinople  ;  and  as  he  could  not 
persuade  his  guests  that  Turkey  would  be  infinitely  more 
interesting  than  Italy,  for  a  brief  residence,  he  permitted 
them,  after  a  month's  delicious'  cruise,  to  embark  at  the 
nearest  port  to  Florence,  to  which  fair  city  they  were  bound, 
for  thither,  though  she  said  but  Uttle,  Florence's  wishes 
turned. 

Strength,  as  Sir  Charles  Braslileigh  predicted,  had  par- 
tially returned ;  and  the  great  benefit  wliich  she  had 
derived  from  the  sea-breezes,  and  continually  changing 
scene,  argued  well  for  the  hopes  of  her  friends.  Lady  St. 
Maur,  indeed,  still  in  secret  trembled  ;  for  to  her  afiection 
it  seemed,  that  the  returning  elasticity  was  merely  tem- 
porary, and  that  Florence  would  at  length  sirdi:,  not  from 
the  terrible  trials  she  had  undergone,  but  from  that  dark 
and  fatal  secret,  wliich,  A^dth  all  a  woman's  sympathy, 
she  felt  was  crushing  life  beneath  its  weight.  Lord  St. 
Maur  could  not  feel  this,  because  hope  was  so  strongly  at 
work  wdthin  him ;  young  Elliott  so  entirely  forgox  it, 
except  as  rendering  her  in  his  eyes  a  being  still  more 
demanding  love  and  cherishing,  that  he  could  not  believe 
that  it  could  weigh  so  heavily  on  her.  Still,  by  neither 
word  nor  sign  did  he  betray  the  devoted  love  which  in 
reality  he  felt ;  though  to  a  mind  less  pre-occupied,  liia 
almost  reverential  manner  of  addressing  her,  of  superin 
tending  all  the  little  kindnesses  which  could  tend  to  hei 
uornfort,  might  have  betrayed  something  deeper  than  mere 
regard. 


\vomj\n's   friendship.  331 

The  little  party  broke  up  with  regret,  only  softened  by 
the  idea  of  their  very  shortly  meeting  again — on  Captain 
Elhott's  return  from  the  Sublime  Porte — when  it  would  be 
decided  whether  they  were  to  accompany  him  again  to  the 
South  of  France,  or  return  to  England  overland.  However 
he  might  believe  that  to  worship  as  an  unlmown  devotee 
would  content  him,  Sir  Ronald  found  that  this  worship, 
a2')art  from  its  idol,  was  something  very  different  to  paying 
it  in  her  presence.  Yet  he  persevered  in  his  resolution, 
that  she  should  never  know  how  she  was  beloved,  till 
she  was  happy  enough  to  be  awake  to  the  consciousness 
that  she  had  yet  the  power  of  charming  one  in  unselfish 
reverence  to  her  side.  She  seemed  to  him  as  one  too  pure, 
too  unearthly  in  her  high  and  beautiful  excellence,  to  be 
approached  with  aught  of  worldly  passion,  and  so,  though 
his  limbs  trembled  with  suppressed  emotion,  as  he  came 
to  bid  her  farewell,  every  feeling  was  efTectually  concealed. 

And  at  last  Florence  was  in  Italy  I  Was  it  the  spirit  of 
her  own  ill-fated  mother  at  work,  which  caused  her  whole 
being  to  thrill  with  such  a  mingled  sense  of  pain  and 
pleasure  that  her  feeble  frame  could  scarcely  sustain  it, 
as  she  gazed  on  those  scenes  of  nature,  those  exquisite 
models  of  art,  which  had  been  so  long  her  day-dream  ? 
Who  might  answer  ?  There  are  mysteries  in  the  human 
heart,  depths  and  capabilities  of  suffering  and  of  enjoyment, 
which  even  their  possessor  can  scarcely  define,  and  how, 
then,  may  they  be  described  to  others  ?  The  Countess 
often  v/ondered  if  the  wish  to  visit  the  scene  of  her  mother's 
last  sufferings  ever  crossed  her  mind,  but  she  nev?r  alluded 
to  it,  nor  did  Florence. 

Lord  St.  Maur  had  departed  on  a  private  expedition,  a 
week  or  ten  days  after  their  arrival  at  Florence,  and  on  his 
return  he  found  several  dispatches  awaiting  him  from 
England.  It  was  easy  for  his  wife  to  read  in  his  features 
that  his  search  had  not  been  in  vain,  and  that  Elford's  tale 
really  had  foundation;  but  the  peculiar  expression  which 
attended  the  perusal  of  an  inclosure  from  Lord  Edgemere, 
was  even  to  her  penetration  incomprehensible.  It  was 
speedily  explained. 

"  Florence,  I  have  news  for  you.  Are  you  strong  enough 
to  hear  them?"    inquired   Lady   St.    Maur,    entering   her 


332  woman's   friendship. 

friend's  boudoir  the  following  morning,  and  finding  her 
reclining  on  a  sofa,  resting  from  the  fatigue  of  mditing  a 
long  letter  to  Minie. 

"News,  requiring  strength  to  hear,  dearest  Ida  ?  (Lady 
St.  Maur  had  long  since  insisted  that  Florence  should  drop 
her  title.)  "VYhat  can  you  mean  ?  I  can  imagine  no  newH 
of  such  importance,  unless,"  she  started  up  alarmed 
**  unless  you  have  heard  more  of  Minie  than  I  have.  Wha' 
of  her. 

"  Nothing  of  her,  you  apprehensive  heing  ;  besides,  ij 
it  were,  my  news  are  of  joy,  not  of  sorrow  T" 

"  Joy  ! — and  for  me  !" 

"  Why,  are  there  no  news  which  can  be  fraught  with  joy 
for  you,  Florence  ?  Think,  is  there  nothing — nothing^  itsr 
the  whole  range  of  thought  and  wish,  which  you  havr 
lingered  on,  which,  if  discovered,  would  bring  joy  ?" 

"Nothing,  but  that  which  is  impossible,"  replied  Flo- 
rence, despondingly. 

"  Do  not  say  so,  dearest,  it  is  unlike  your  trusting  faitii 
to  imagine  there  is  any  one  thing  impossible  to  Ilim  wh 
watches  over  us,  till  all  things  meet  together  for  our  gcoa 
Have  you  never  thought,  never  believed,  that  your  owi 
poor  mother  had  grounds  for  her  assertion  that  her  child  • 
birth  was  as  legal  as  her  own  marriago  ?" 

"  Yes,  that  she  had  grounds,  perhaps  proof  to  satisf  • 
herself — ^but  not  the  world,  for  even  she  might  have  beer 
deceived." 

"  Do  you  remember  in  Mrs.  Leslie's  MS.  that  sh« 
alludes  to  a  search  for  papers,  which  she  imagined  hei 
poor  friend  had  really  obtained,  but  that  none  Merr 
found  ?" 

"  Perfectly  ;  but  I  believe  with  my  dear  father,  that  n 
was  merely  the  excitement  of  fever  which  made  her  thu? 
speak — not  actual  possession." 

"And  suppose  there  really  had  been  such  papers,  anc. 
by  a  most  providential  concatenation  of  circumstances  they 
had  been  traced  and  found,  and  all  mystery  respecting  yom 
birth  dispelled.  Florence,  dearest,  I  must  be  silent,  if  you 
give  way  to  agitation  such  as  this — " 

"  No  I  no  I  no  !"   gasped  poor  Florence,  strugghng  with 


woman's  fpuIENdship.  333 

the  excitement  which  nearly  overpowered  her,  "  tell  me 
all  that  you  have  learned.  I  am  strong  enough  to  hear  it. 
Can  it  be,  that  after  such  a  lapse  of  years,  they  can  be  dis- 
covered ;  that  all  may  yet  be  revealed  ?" 

"  I  bade  you  hope,  my  Florence,  when  I  had  little  hope 
myself,"  replied  Lady  St.  Maur.  "  Little  to  build  on,  but 
the  words  of  my  husband,  narrating  a  curious  tale  which 
had  met  his  ears  in  Italy,  disregarded  at  the  time,  but 
recalled  by  the  perusal  of  Mrs.  Leslie's  MS."  She  here 
related  briefly  that  with  which  our  readers  are  already 
acquainted,  and  continued — "  Lord  St.  Maur  did  all  he 
could  to  obtain  further  information  of  these  young  men. 
Elford  he  did  not  know  personally  ;  George  Lacy,  Elford's 
particular  friend,  was  seized  with  a  mania  to  travel  all 
over  the  world  ;  for  my  husband  could  not  get  a  letter  to 
reach  him,  until,  I  think,  full  eight  months  after  his  first 
attempt.  Lacy's  information  only  consisted  in  stating, 
that  Elford  was  with  his  regiment  in  Lidia,  and  not  ex- 
pected to  return  for  four  or  five  years.  As  this  was  the 
case,  my  husband  felt  there  was  little  chance  of  his 
obtaining  the  papers,  except  by  going  to  Italy  himself. 
It  was  just  about  the  time  of  Minie's  marriage,  and  then 
there  was  little  appearance  of  his  accompUshing  it.  When, 
however,  you  became  ill,  and  Sir  Charles  mentioned  Italy 
and  a  voyage,  as  likely  to  restore  you,  he  was  quite  as 
anxious  to  try  it  as  Ronald  himself,  still  hoping — a  hope, 
I  candidly  own,  I  could  not  share — that  the  papers  did 
exist  and  would  be  found.  You  sacrificed  your  own 
■  esire,  to  keep  your  fatal  secret  hid  from  all,  in  my  favor, 
learest  Florence,  that  I  might  not  be  burdened  with  a 
secret  which  I  might  not  impart  to  my  husband  ;  and  to 
this  sacrifice  of  self  you  owe  a  discovery,  which,  I  trust, 
you  will  eventually  own  is  fraught  with  joy.  To  tell  you 
all  in  a  few  words — the  Earl's  secret  expedition  was  to  the 
source  of  the  Arno,  and  there,  true  to  both  Mrs.  Leslie's 
manuscripts  and  Elford's  narrative,  he  found  the  village 
cure,  the  superstitious  host,  and  the  long-desired  casket. 
So  easily  had  every  difficulty  at  length  been  overcome,  thai 
my  husband  had  scarcely  courage  to  examine  the  papers, 
fearmg  now  he  really  had  them,  that  they  were  not  those 
he  sought. 


334  woman's  friendship. 

"But  they  were  ! — they  were  I"  burst  passicnatel}-  frort 
the  parched  Hps  of  Florence. 

"  Dearest,  they  w^ere  even  those  very  papers  to  which 
your  unhappy  mother's  dying  words  alluded.  It  is  cleai 
that  Madeleine,  ill  and  suflering  as  she  was,  mast  have 
sought  for  and  found  the  ahhe  who  had  united  them, 
obtained  from  him  the  certificate  of  their  marriage,  and 
also  a  written  document,  proving,  on  oath,  not  only  the 
truth  and  sanctity  of  his  cloth,  which  in  the  wildness  of 
her  agony  she  appears  to  have  doubted;  but  that  a  noto- 
rious fact  concerning  this  Charles  JSTevilJe,  having  met  his 
ear,  he  had  positively  refused  to  marry  them,  unless 
Mr.  Neville  would  take  the  most  solemn  oath,  ana.  bring 
papers  to  testify,  that  he  was  uniting  himself  to  Madeleine 
Montani  under  his  real  name.  This  w^as  done ;  papers 
signed  to  that  efiect  w^ere  given  to  the  reverend  priest's 
care,  who,  in  his  simplicity,  inferred  the  repentance  of  the 
bridegroom,  and  his  pure  love  for  his  beautiful  bride,  by 
the  little  resistance  he  made  to  this  proposal.  Alas  I  ere 
the  year  was  passed,  the  cause  for  this  seeming  submission 
was  explained.  Neville  wrote  to  the  old  man,  tauntingly 
and  triumphantly,  alluding  to  the  compact  he  had  made, 
but  that  it  was  idle  and  useless  all ;  did  he  believe  him 
such  a  dolt- as  to  forge  chains  for  himself  which  he  could 
not  break  at  his  will  ?  At  the  very  time  the  ahhe  had 
united  him  as  Charles  Neville  to  the  deceived  Madeleine, 
he  said  his  father  w^as  using  every  effort  and  expending 
large  sums  of  money  in  changing  the  name,  and  that  he 
had  succeeded.  Not  alone  was  the  name  of  Neville  ban 
ished  for  ever,  but  a  title  was  in  prospect,  and  when  ootamed, 
what  search,  what  claim  could  ever  identify  him  as  the  hus- 
band of  Madeleine,  the  father  of  her  child  ?" 

"  But  he  asknowdedged  he  knew  she  was  his  ^vife  1" 
exclaimed  Florence,  strongly  agitated.  "Alas  I  alas,  my 
mother  I     Yet  this  satisfaction  was  at  least  her  own." 

"  It  was.  Her  search  for  the  Abbe  Gramont  was  at  least 
not  entirely  in  vain.  Convinced  that  she  possessed  these 
important  papers,  and  unconscious  that  they  had  been 
Btolen,  she  died,  m  all  probability,  so  far  happy  ;  that  she 
believed   the   friend,    whom   Providence    had   brought   to 


woman's  friendship.  335 

adopt  her  cliild,  would  have  proofs  of  the  legality  of  ita 
birth." 

"  And  you  have  the  papers  !     You  really  have  them  !" 

"  Yes,  dearest,  close  at  hand.  You  can  examine  them 
when  you  will." 

"  And  you  and  Lord  St.  Maur  are  convinced  by  thern 
that  there  is  no  stain  upon  my  birth  ?  I  may,  indeed,  go 
forth  again  like  others  ?  His  name  2t'as  Neville  when  ho 
married?" 

"To  us  there  is  not  the  smallest  doubt  remaining  ;  ihero 
ca/i  be  none  I  Other,  and  (though  trifling)  most  convincing 
circumstances  confirm  this." 

Florence  sunk  back,  with  such  a  fervent  burst  of  thaiJcs 
giving,  that  the  Countess  could  not* hear  it  unmoved.  Every 
feature  became  irradiated ;  her  clasped  hands,  her  parted 
lip,  her  swimming  eye,  betrayed  the  full  tide  of  joyous 
gratitude  which  was  swelhng  in  her  heart,  though,  after 
the  first  exclamation,  words  she  had  none. 

"  You  have  more  to  tell  me,"  she  said  at  length,  when 
her  agitation  subsided  sufficiently  to  perceive  that  Lady 
St.  Maur's  countenance  was  still  somewhat  anxious. 
*'  What  can  it  be,  that  it  will  not  permit  you  to  sympa- 
thize in  the  blessedness  of  this  moment,  as  you  did  in 
former  sorrow?  Ida,  dearest  Ida,  do  you  fear  that  be- 
cause it  has  been  revealed  only  now,  that  I  can  not  be 
as  grateful  as  I  ought.  Do  you  wish  it  had  come  earlier  ? 
Oh  I  wish  it  not ;  it  must  be  better  so,  or  it  vv^ould  not 
have  been." 

"  And  can  you,  in  truth,  feel  this,  my  Florence  ?  Can 
you  still  realize  a  Hand  of  Love  in  the  eventful  tenor  of 
your  life  ?  Can  you  still  believe  that  your  adopted 
mother's  prayer  was  granted,  and  that  the  misery  you 
have  endured  was  its  reply  ?  Florence,  I  ask  not  idly^. 
Answer  me  only  as  you  feel." 

"And  as  I  feel,  I  answer,  my  kind  friend.  Had  not 
the  fiery  ordeal,  through  which  it  has  pleased  a  God  of 
Love  to  bring  me,  been  for  good,  it  would  have  been 
averted.  Had  it  been  for  our  happiness.  I  mean  ^or 
Frank's  and  mine,  that  we  should  have  become  one,  this 
discovery  would  not  have  been  so  long  delayed.  No  !  it 
is  better  thus.     God  in  mercy  heard  my  prayer.     I  can 


336  woman's   friendship. 

look  upon  my  sister's  husband  only  as  my  brother,  now ; 
can  feel  that  with  her  he  must  be  happier  than  he  would 
have  been  with  me,  or  he  could  not  so  easily  have  loved 
again.  I  do  not  say  I  could  always  realize  this,  but  that 
I  can  7101V,  freely  and  thanldully.  Love  is  past  and  gone 
— I  will  not  say  as  if  it  had  never  been,  because  my 
heart  has  lost  its  freshness,  but  the  object  of  its  illusion 
is  as  completely  banished  as  if  he  were  one  amongst  the 
dead — perhaps  still  more  so,  for  it  would  be  no  sin  to  re- 
tain his  image  then  as  it  is  now.  Did  I  not  give  him  to 
another  ?  did  I  not  level  the  barriers  between  him  and  his 
happiness  ?  I  say  it  not  in  ostentation,  but  only  to  con- 
vince you  that  if  I  could  do  this,  if  I  could  thus  resign 
him,  I  should  feel  it  sin  to  cease  to  struggle  till  I  had  con- 
quered all  of  love." 

"  And  you  have  done  this  ?" 

"  Yes  !  If  Frank  were  free  to-morrow,  and  could  feel 
again  that  which  he  once  professed  for  me — make  me 
anew  an  offer,  I  would  not  be  his  wife  ;  perhaps  the 
weaning  myself  from  old  thoughts,  old  feelings,  was  too 
deep  suffering,  to  permit  the  idea  of  their  return,  wdthout 
the  fervent  cry  for  help,  that  such  might  never  be — I  could 
not  hear  it." 

*'  And  no  regret,  then,  mingles  with  this  hour  ?  Florence, 
my  noble  Florence,  can  human  nature  attain  faith  Uke  this  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes  I  believe  it,  dearest  Ida.  God  tries  us  not 
beyond  our  strength,  beyond  that  which  he  will  give  us 
help  to  bear.  I  know  that  the  ivherefore  He  has  tried  me, 
will  be  revealed  in  heaven  ;  on  earth,  I  ask  it  not,  hope  it 
not.  It  is  enough  that  His  love  permits  my  feeling  that  He 
has  willed  it,  therefore  it  is  good." 

"  And  if  the  ivherefore  should  be  indeed  revealed  to  us  on 
earth,  Florence — my  own  Florence — think  you  you  could 
bear  to  know  the  truth  ?" 

"  Bear  it  1"  exclaimed  Florence,  once  more  springing  up, 
and  laying  both  hands  on  her  friend's  arm.  "  What  can 
you  mean  ?     What  have  I  more  to  bear  ?" 

"  Little  of  suffering,  now,  my  Florence,  but  much  to  call 
for  thanksgiving.  Tell  me,  are  you  satisfied  that  your  poor 
mother's  death  was  happier  than  you  thought ;  that  no 
spot  of  shame  can  attach  itself  to  you  ?" 


tVOMAN's    FRIENDSHIP.  337 

'*  Wh&t  i^ivio  is  needed  ?  Is  not  that  in  itself  sulEcient 
mercy  7^'  leplied  Florence. 

"  You  would  not,  then,  proclaim  yourself  liis  cliild,  did 
you  know  that  your  father  lived  ?'' 

"  No,  no  !  Oh  I  call  him  not  my  father  ;  spare  me  that 
further  agony,"  entreated  Florence,  pain  suddenly  contract- 
ing every  feature  wliich  had  beamed  with  such  holy,  such 
beautiful  submission.  "  What  can  he  be  to  me,  or  I  to 
him.  save  as  mutual  objects  of  dread  ?  And  even  if  he 
owned  me,  my  legal  right  might  perhaps  interpose  between 
him  and  other  ofispring,  believed  legal  now.  No,  no,  let 
me  bo  Florence  Leslie  still  !  No  other  name  could  be  to 
me  like  that ;  no  father  like  him  who  took  me  to  liis  hearth 
and  heart,  when  I  knew  no  other,  and  no  other  would  know 
me.  It  is  enough  we  know  the  truth,  why  should  the 
Vv^orld  know  more  ?" 

"  Be  calm,  be  comforted,  then,  my  Florence  ;  it  shall 
be  as  you  will,"  replied  the  Countess,  fondly.  "  Nay, 
if  it  be  such  sufiering,  liis  very  name  you  need  not 
know." 

"  His  name  !"  repeated  Florence,  wildly.  "  Gracious 
heavens  !  is  that,  too,  brought  to  light  ?  And  was  it  tliis 
you  feared  to  tell  me  ?  Feared  I  Yet  why  ?  What  can 
it  be  to  me  ?" 

"  Notliing  now  to  fear,  my  Florence.  Wliat  might  have 
been,  had  those  papers  been  a  little  longer  concealed,  or 
had  you  failed  in  that  dread  moment  of  trial,  I  shudder 
to  thinli:  on.  Is  it  possible  you  do  not  miderstand  me  ?" 
she  added,  as  Florence's  large  eyes  moved  not  from  her  face, 
yet  evinced  no  em.otion  but  inquiry. 

"  Understand  you  ?  Yes — ^that  Charles  Neville  is  discov- 
ered ;  but  you  have  not  said  in  whom  ?" 

Lady  St.  Maur  did  not  reply  in  words  ;  but  she  placed 
an  open  letter  fn.  her  hand.  Florence  glanced  rapidly 
over  it.  Her  cheek  and  hps  gradually  became  blanched 
to  the  color  of  her  robe,  as  she  proceeded.  Her  breath 
became  impeded,  till  at  length  she  felt  as  if  every  pulse 
suddenly  stood  still.  Her  brow  contracted,  her  eyes  dis 
tended,  and  though  the  paper  dropped  from  her  hands> 
they  remained  convulsively  clendied,  as  if  they  held  it 
itiU. 

29 


338  woman's    FRIENDSIIir. 

"  Florence  !"  exclaimed  Lady  St.  Maur,  throwing  he\ 
arms  around  her,  "you  are  saved  this  intolerable  misery 
Dearest,  will  you  not  thank  God  ?" 

Florence  heard,  and  understood  her.  A  grasp  of  ice 
seemed  loosed  from  her  heart  and  brain,  and,  throwing 
herself  passionately  on  the  Comitess's  neck,  sense,  and  with 
it  thankfulness,  too  deep,  too  intense  for  words,  returned,  in 
a  convulsive  burst  of  tears. 


CHAPTER  LIV. 

REMORSE. 


Lord  St.  Maur  and  his  family  remained  in  Italy  nearly 
a  twelvemonth  ;  and  though  Sir  Ronald  Elliott  could  not 
prevail  on  them  to  return  in  his  frigate  to  England,  he  did 
succeed  in  persuading  them,  before  he  left  the  southern 
shores,  to  take  a  cruise  in  the  Adrioiic,  touching  at  all 
the  far-famed  Grecian  Isles.  The  excursion  happily  con- 
firmed the  hoped-for  improvement  in  the  health  and 
spirits  of  Florence.  The  Captain  of  course  declared  it 
was  his  much-loved  ocean  wliich  had  accomplished  this 
good,  although  Lord  St.  Maur  compelled  hun  to  acknowl- 
edge that  she  was  materially  better  before  the  last  cruise, 
and  consequently  that  Italy  had  been  as  beneficial  as  the 
sea. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  the  Florence  Leslie  who  returned 
to  England  after  an  eighteen  months'  absence,  was  very 
difierent  from  the  Florence  Leslie  who  had  left  it.  To 
the  unspeakable  happiness  of  Minie  and  Frank,  there 
was  no  further  appearance  of  gradual  decay,  and  what- 
ever might  have  been  the  sorrow  wliich  they  had  feared 
was  consuming  her,  its  every  trace  had  passed  away. 
The  quiet  happiness,  the  unruffled  cheerfulness  of  former 
days  had  returned.  She  no  longer  shrunk,  as  Minie  had 
feared  she  would,  from  witnessing  the  happiness  she  had 
done  so  much  to  heighten,  but  seemed  to  delight  now  in 
the  society  of  those  she  had  served ;  needing  no  other 
proof  of  gratitude  than  the  continuance  of  their  nurture, 


woman's  friendship.  339 

confidence,  and  love,  and  tlieir  unwavering  respect  and 
affection  towards  herself.  She  promised  them,  as  she 
could  not  quite  grant  their  reiterated  request  to  live  with 
them  entirely,  that  her  home  should  he  alternately  with 
them  and  the  Countess  St.  Maur.  Minie  and  Frank 
assured  her  they  wanted  hut  this  to  complete  their 
happiness. 

"You  have  not  seen  Emily,  then,  since  her  engage- 
ment with  Louis  Camden?"  inquired  Lady  Mary  Melford 
of  the  Countess  St.  Maur,  as  they  sat  together  one  morn- 
ing, some  months  after  the  latter's  return  to  England. 
Lord  Melford' s  family  were  still  in  Scotland,  where  they 
had  been  staying  six  or  seven  weeks. 

"  No,  we  missed  each  other  completely,  and  I  knew 
nothing  of  this  engagement  till  quite  hy  chance  :  Emily 
did  not  even  write  to  tell  me  of  it.  Is  it  the  same 
Camden  she  met  at  our  house  two  or  tliree  years  ago, 
when  we  were  so  anxious  to  discover  the  truth  about 
Florence?" 

"  The  very  same  :  you  know  he  became  intimate  with 
our  famihes  from  that  circumstance.  Alfred  rather  liked 
him,  but  never  dreamed  of  liis  being  Emily's  choice." 

"  Nor  should  I  :  some  years  ago  he  would  have  been 
the  least  hkely  person  to  attract  her.  Indeed,  when  we 
left  England,  I  thought  she  would  never  marry ;  does  she 
love  him  ?" 

Lady  Mary  laughed.  "  How  can  you  ask  such  a 
simple  question,  Ida?  did  I  not  teU  you  some  years  ago, 
that  love  was  out  of  fashion,  though  you  and  I  were  silly 
enough  to  fall  into  its  trammels  ?  Emily  is  now  urged 
by  the  amiable  desire  of  proving  that  she  has  a  will  of  her 
own  in  opposition  to  that  of  her  parents,  who  did  not 
approve  of  the  match." 

"  "Why  not  ?  he  is  of  good  family,  is  he  not  ?  and  1 
hear  nothing  alleged  against  liim  in  the  way  of  character." 

"  Character  !  he  has  none  to  allege  any  thing  against 
They  vnll  be  happy  after  their  o^vn  fashion,  I  dare  say. 
Nothing  in  cormnon,  certainly,  except  indolence,  which 
delightful  quality  will  save  them  from  the  trouble  of  quar- 
relling. Louis  will  lounge  away  his  mornings  at  the 
Horse  (luards,  Tattersj^ll's,  etc.,  as  he  does  now.     Emily 


310  WOMAN    S    FRIENDSIIir, 

will  furnish  her  drawing-room  and  toudoir  with  the  most 
elegant  Berlin  work,  which  Avill  occupy  her  some  delight- 
ful years ;  perhaps  lor  a  change  she  may  indite  a 
fasliionable  novel,  if  Avritmg  be  not  too  much  trouble. 
She  has  read  so  many,  that  she  might  concoct^  one  quite 
original  in  appearance,  however  borrowed  m  reahty. 
Now,  have  I  not  sketched  you  a  picture  of  true  fehcity, 
Ida  ?     Do  not  laugh,  it  is  true  to  life." 

"  Indeed  it  is  much  too  sad  for  laughter,  but  your  comic 
look  provoked  it.  How  can  you  talk  so  cooUy  of  two  per- 
sons entermg  into  the  solemn  ceremony  of  marriage, 
taldng  a  sacred  oath  to  be  as  ojste,  'Allien  they  have  no  more 
ideg,  of  bemg  so  than  they  were  before  they  married ; 
gomg  their  own  ways,  seeldng  their  own  pleasures  ;  in  a 
word,  living  but  for  themselves,  when  they  have  sworn  so 
to  love  one  another,  that  self  must  be  anniliilated.  It  is 
dreadful !" 

"  My  dear  Ida,  hundreds  do  the  same  ;  for  ten  that 
marry  for  love  in  this  worldly  age,  I  will  find  you  fifty 
that  do  so  without  an  atom  of  such  romance." 

"  Perhaps  so  ;  but  numbers  m  my  opuiion  do  not  con- 
stitute either  strength  or  wisdom.  Better  Emily  should 
vegetate  through  lile,  as  she  does  now,  than  marry  with 
such  feeluigs." 

"  Indeed,  I  do  not  think  so.  Matrimony  may  bring 
some  cares  and  annoyances  with  it,  and  that  will  do  her 
good.     Their  novelty  will  make  them,  pleasures." 

*'  A  novel  kind  undoubtedly ;  but  how  do  you  know 
that  she  really  doei  not  love  liim  as  much  at  least  as  she 
can  love  1" 

"  Only  by  her  telling  me  so  herself.  You  may  start 
and  look  disbelieving  ;  but  it  is  perfectly  true,  she  con- 
demns all  love  as  the  height  of  folly." 

"  Then  why  marry  at  all  ?  particularly  as  by  youi 
account  she  is  to  work  worsted  and  read  novels  just  the 
same  after  marriage  as  before,  so  it  cannot  be  for  change 
of  employment." 

"Oh!  but  then*  is  more  eclat  in  what  the  honorable 
Mrs.  Camden  does,  than  in  the  saymgs  and  doings  of 
Emily  Melford.  She  says  herself  that  she  marries  foi  a 
change,  to  prove  to  her  father  that  she  lilies  her  own  will 


woman's  friendship.  34l 

better  than  his,  and  to  take  precedence  of  her  sister  at  all 
the  dinners  and  balls  where  they  may  chance  to  meet." 

*'  Mary,  you  are  uncharitable  1" 

"  On  my  honor,  I  repeat  but  her  own  words.  Imagine, 
Bhould  she  have  children,  in  what  a  capital  school  they  will 
be  trained." 

"  Children  I  Emily  a  mother,  and  of  girls  ?  unless  she 
change  very  materially,  of  which  I  fear  there  is  little 
chance.  Heaven  avert  such  a  misfortune  both  to  herself  and 
them." 

'*  Amen  ;  if  you  speak  so  seriously,  Ida,  I  must  be  serious 
too.  You  say  '  of  girls  ;'  do  you  think  a  mother's  influence 
is  less  felt  with  boys  ?" 

"  Only  so  far  that  they  are  remoTed  sooner  from  her 
care  ;  an  indolent  mother  will  dispatch  her  boys  to  school, 
almost  before  she  has  power  to  work  them  good  or  evil. 
Her  girls  remain  with  her  under  a  governess  perhaps,  but 
that  will  hardly  save  them  from  the  efiects  of  example  ; 
and  believe  me,  a  mother  influences  the  tender  years  of 
her  children  yet  more  by  example,  than  by  precept.  In 
your  case,  dear  Mary,  I  feel  assured  that  your  influence 
will  follow  your  boy  through  life,  babe  as  he  is  now,  and 
little  as  you  think  you  can  do  for  him.  You  see  I  have 
read  the  thoughts  which  dictate  your  question,  and  I  an- 
swer them  in  the  words  of  Madame  Campan — '  Mothers 
more  than  schools  are  wanted  to  give  us  a  nobler  race  of 
men.'  " 

"  I  ask  but  to  make  my  boy  like  his  father,"  was  the 
instant  reply. 

Lady  St.  Maur  smiled.  "  Conjugal  love  is  not  out  of 
fashion  then,  Mary,  though  every  other  is." 

"  I  told  you  we  were  exceptions,  Ida." 

"  I  am  glad  of  it,  Mary  ;  but  for  your  boy,  if  you  do  not 
wish  him  better  than  his  father,  you  can  make  him  Jiappier, 
for  Alfred  had  little  of  maternal  influence  to  make  him 
what  he  is." 

"  Farlez  cVun  Ane  et  Von  vols  scs  oreilles,''  said  Lady 
Mary,  laughing  mischievously,  as  her  husband  and  Lord  St 
Maur  entered  at  that  moment. 

*'  Which  of  us  must  look  for  his  oreilles  Lady  Mary  ?" 
:Jemanded  the  Earl  in  the  same  tone, 
29* 


342  woman's  friendship. 

"  Oh,  not  you,  though  Ida  was  speaking,  do  not  ilattei 
yourself  it  was  about  you.  Alfred,  as  you  were  the  A?ie, 
have  you  no  curiosity  ?" 

"  None  at  tliis  moment.  I  have  just  learned  tidinga 
which  have  startled  me.  Lord  Glenvylle  has  been  thrown 
out  of  his  carriage,  and  so  seriously  injured  that  there  is 
little  hope  of  his  recovery." 

A  general  start  and  exclamation  followed  his  words. 

"  How  unfortunate,"  remarked  Lady  Mary  ;  "  Mmie  haa 
scarcely  recovered  the  severe  iL'ness  which  followed  hex 
confinement,  and  I  am  sure  is  not  well  enough  for  Frank  to 
leave  her  ;  she  has  been  so  attentive  and  kind  to  that 
strange  man,  and  he  has  grown  so  fond  of  her,  that  the 
news  of  his  danger  v/ill,  I  am  sure,  do  her  harm." 

"  The  more  so,  as  Lord  Glenvylle  had  just  left  Wood- 
lands in  perfect  health,"  rejomed  the  Earl. 

"  Woodlands  I  had  he  been  there  ?" 

"  Yes,  absolutely  to  see  his  grandson,  to  whom  you  know 
he  insisted  on  givmg  the  name  of  Leslie.  His  eccentricity 
showed  itself  even  then.  I  wonder  he  left  his  retirement 
at  all." 

"And  Florence,  how  is  he  with  her  ?"  asked  Melford  ; 
'*  has  she  seen  much  of  him  ?" 

"  Only  since  his  visit  to  Woodlands.  Cordial  to  women, 
you  know  he  never  is,  and  Florence  rather  shrinks  from . 
than  invites  his  notice.  He  would,  however,  I  have  heard, 
distinguish  her,  as  he  has  never  forgotten  what  he  terms 
her  courage  in  seeking  him,  and  her  generosity  towards 
his  son." 

"  Ida,  how  strangely  silent  you  have  become  ;  what  are 
you  tliinking  about  ?'  inquired  Lady  Mary ;  but  the 
Countess — a  very  unusual  circumstance  with  her — could 
not  at  that  moment  reveal  her  thoughts,  and  evaded  the 
question. 

Melford's  intelligence  was  correct.  When  nearing  the 
metropolis.  Lord  Glenvylle's  horses  had  taken  fright,  and, 
overturning  the  carriage,  their  master  was  so  seriously 
hurt  as  to  be  conveyed  insensible  to  his  own  house. 
Medical  men  had  been  instantly  summoned,  and  pro- 
nounced him  injured  internally,  and  so  severely  as 
to  baffls  their  skill.      He  might  linger,  nay,  might  recover , 


woman's  friendsh  p.  343 

but  it  was  so  doubtful,  they  would  not  advise  any  delay  in 
sending  for  his  family. 

As  Lady  Mary  had  anticipated,  the  news  caused  Frank 
the  greatest  uneasiness.  Delicate  as  she  was,  Minie  could 
not  accompany  him,  and  yet  she  was  most  urgent  to  do  so, 
declaring  that  his  father  ought  not  to  be  left  alone,  and  so 
entirely  dependent  on  his  domestics.  Frank  felt  the  truth 
of  her  words  ;  but  he  could  not  consent,  her  health  waa 
much  too  precious  to  be  risked,  and  he  would  have  de- 
parted alone,  had  not  Florence  conjured  him  with  earnest- 
ness to  permit  her  supplying  Minie' s  place.  She  would 
go  to  his  father,  tarry  with  him  till  his  recovery  ;  and  thus 
if  the  illness  were  lingering,  j)ermit  Frank's  occasional 
visits  home,  without  any  increased  anxiety.  If  he  thought 
Minie  well  enough  to  be  left,  her  resolution  was  taken,  she 
would  go  with  him  to  London. 

Minie's  anxiety  calmed  on  the  instant  of  this  proposal, 
and  Frank,  with  real  gratitude,  acceded.  All  idea  of 
Lord  Glenvylle's  dislike  to  her  attendance  was  banished 
on  their  arrival,  for  a  prey  to  incessant  fever  and  delirium 
only  varied  by  lethargic  stupors,  he  knew  none  of  those 
around  him.  Full  of  affection  for  his  father,  notwithstand- 
ing his  capricious  conduct  towards  himself,  Fraidt's  feelings 
were  harrowed  to  a  pitch  almost  of  agony  ;  not  so  much  at 
the  bodily  sufferings  which  he  could  not  alleviate,  but  from 
the  unintelligible  yet  seemingly  connected  ravings  of  de- 
lirium. In  vain  Florence  would  conjure  him  to  leave  the 
apartment,  or  assure  him  there  could  be  no  meaning  in  the 
dark  words  he  heard.  He  would  linger  spell-bound,  and 
then  rush  from  the  room  to  pace  his  own,  longing  to  disbe- 
lieve, yet  feeling  that  he  could  not. 

He  had  never  dreamed  of  remorse  and  its  attendant 
fears  as  actuating  his  father.  His  nature  was  too  high, 
too  pure  to  permit  such  thoughts  as  touching  any  one  so 
nearly  related  to  himself  He  knew  not  of  what  he  raved, 
save  that  it  was  evil  ;  yet  there  were  words  wliich  froze 
his  very  life  within  him,  seeming,  in  spite  of  their  madness, 
to  explain  much  of  what  had  been  mysterious  in  his  parent's 
life  before,  and  he  pondered  on  them  till  his  brain  reeled. 

Meanwhile,  day  and  night  did  Florence  devote  herself  to 
^le  suffering  man.     He  knew  her  not ;  yet  her  presenoo, 


344  WOMAN    S    FRIENDSIIir. 

her  gentle  tending  often  appeared  to  soothe  him  wheu  aU 
else  failed.  When  Frank  had  power  to  think,  ho  implorccl 
her  to  take  more  care  of  herself.  A'Vliat  claim  had  hia 
father  upon  her  that  she  should  do  all  this  for  him  ? 

"  The  claim  of  the  suffering  and  the  repentant  upon  the 
healthfid  and  the  innocent,"  was  her  instant  reply  ;  "  Franlc, 
there  is  satisfaction  in  what  I  do.  Do  not  care  for  me,  only 
for  Minie's  sake,  for  your  child's,  calm  this  fi-ightful  excite- 
ment ;  trust  me,  all  will  yet  be  well." 

"  Well !  If  there  should  he  cause  for  what  I  hear. 
Florence,  does  he  not  rave  that  I — I,  though  his  son,  was 
not  his  heir  ?  That  there  was  a  previous  marriage,  that 
then  another  may  claim  the  name  and  the  title,  that  it  was 
for  this  I  might  wed  with  none  but  one  who  could  bestow 
them.  Title  !  What  care  I  for  that  ?  but  that  I  who  so 
gloried  in  a  pure  line  of  ancestry,  in  noble  birth,  to  add  to 
the  freedom  and  beauty  of  life,  should  find  myself  a  name- 
less outcast.     Florence,  can  this  be  well?" 

She  tried  to  soothe  him,  to  argue  that  the  ravings  of  de- 
lirium ought  not  to  thus  disturb  him  ;  but  though  for  a  time 
her  efforts  succeeded,  whenever  those  fearful  wanderings 
were  renewed,  Frank  lost  h-11  power  of  reasoning,  the  very 
obscurity  in  which  his  parent  spoke  but  increased  the  tor- 
ture of  his  mind. 

It  was  nearly  morning.  Florence  had  dismissed  the 
watchers  one  by  one,  and  as  Lord  Glenv^dle  seemed  to  sleep 
more  calmly,  remained  at  last  alone  beside  him,  uncon- 
scious that  Frank,  refreshed  by  some  hours'  sleep,  had  re- 
turned softly  to  the  apartment,  and  shared  her  vigil,  hidden 
from  her  by  the  curtain  of  the  bed. 

For  nearly  an  hour  all  was  perfect  stillness,  and  she  was 
just  sinking  into  slumber,  when  those  low  terrible  mutter- 
ings  which  were  always  the  forerunners  of  the  wiMest  de- 
lirium, startled  her  i^to  wakefulness  anew. 

"  Madeleine  !  Madeleine  !  Come  you  again  ?  Have 
you  not  tortured  me  enough  ?  Yes  !  yes  !  I  know  it.  You 
need  not  repeat  it  so  wildly.  You  married  Charles  Neville, 
and  he  deserted  you.  How  dare  you  call  yourself  my  wife  ? 
Am  I  not  a  Howard  ?  Am  I  not  Viscount  Glenvylle  ? 
What  has  Charles  Neville  to  do  with  me  ?  I  know  you 
aot !  begone  !     I  have  no  child  but  my  poor  Frank.     You 


346 

ghall  not  rob  him  of  his  heritage.  I  have  hoarded  gold  ,' 
take  it,  and  go  I  go  !  I  will  have  no  son  but  Frank  !  Son ; 
have  you  a  son  ?  Why  not  come  before  ?  Why  stay  so 
long?  Frank  is  too  old  now  to  give  up  his  rights.  He 
shall  not,  he  shall  not.  It  will  break  his  heart.  My  boy  ' 
My  own  boy  !  Go  !  go  I  tell  you  !  I  am  not  Charles 
Neville  now.  I  sought  you,  and  you  would  not  come. 
Why  are  you  here  now  ?  Love  me  !  Ay,  ay,  who  ever 
loved  like  thee  ?  My  own  poor  Madeleine,  and  yet  I 
scorned  thee,  trampled  on  thee.  Where  have  you  be^n 
this  long,  long  while  ?  I  did  not  murder — murder  ?  what 
fiend's  voice  spoke  ?  Madeleine  I  Madeleine  !  come  back 
to  me  ;  tell  me  I  have  no  child,  no  son  but  Frank.  You 
will  not  I  you  will  not  I  Off  I  off !  Fiends  !  Devils  !  Ye 
hold  me  with  a  grasp  of  fire — off !  I  will  not  go  with  ye  I 
Off!  off  I"      * 

The  unhappy  man  had  sprung  up  in  his  bed,  his  con- 
vulsive struggles  demanding  the  whole  strength  of  his  son 
to  restrain  him  on  his  couch.  But  though  actually  trem- 
bling lest  the  violence  of  his  madness  might  do  injury  to 
himself  or  Frank,  Florence  called  for  no  other  aid. 

For  several  minutes  the  paroxysm  lasted,  then  gradually- 
subsided  as  if  life  had  indeed  departed.  Frank  moved  not ' 
once  only  he  spoke,  and  it  was  to  entreat  Florence  to  leave 
them  ;  it  was  no  scene  for  her. 

"  Florence  !"  gasped  the  dying  man ;  "  who  spoke  of 
Florence  ?  They  took  Madeleine  there  to  elude  me,  but 
she  loved  me  too  well  for  that,  and  she  came  to  me  spite 
ol  all  they  said,  and  how  did  I  reward  her  ?  Fiend,  fiend 
yet  I  did  love  her  as  I  have  loved  none  other — and  her 
child  — has  she  a  child  ?  No,  no,  no  !  Frank,  Frank  !  I 
will  have  no  son  but  him — no,  no,  none  but  you."  He 
added,  suddenly,  fixing  his  dim  eyes  on  his  son's  face,  un- 
conscious of  his  identity — "  Frank,  boy  !  good,  kind  boy, 
forgive  me ;  I  have  wronged  you.  If  another  come  ta 
claim  your  heritage,  let  him  have  it  !  there  is  wealth 
enough  for  you  ;  I  have  hoarded  it,  prized  it,  that  I  might 
leave  it  all  to  you.  They  cannot  rob  you  of  that,  and  you 
can  take  another  name,  and  purchase  another  title,  Frank, 
and  forget  that  you  had  such  a  guilty  father.  Let  tho 
world  talk  as  it  will,  what  care  you  for  them  ?     My  boy 


316  woman's    friendship. 

my  boy  I    do    not    curse    me,   I    have  loved  you  spite  of 
all!" 

"  Father  I"  exclaimed  the  unhappy  young  man  ;  "  Father, 
in  mercy  cease,  or  speak  more  clearly.  What  have  I  to 
forgive  ?  What  have  I  to  resign  ?  If  I  have  an  elder 
brother,  he  is  welcome  to  it  all.  Let  him  but  come  for- 
ward, and  leave  me  only  a  father.  Say  but  that  I  am  your 
own  son,  that  I  have  equal  right  to  bear  your  name,  and 
for  aught  else — Father,  father,  tell  me  but  the  truth  I" 

"  You  may,  you  may  1  perhaps,  perhaps  !  She  died 
before  your  mother  was  my  wile."  And  Lord  Glenvylle 
sprang  ^jp  again,  the  wild  glare  of  his  sunken  eyes  con^ 
tradicting  the  apparent  sanity  of  his  words.  "  Frank, 
Frank  I  if  after  all  I  should  have  no  other  child,  and  they 
have  tortured  me  for  nothing,  will  you  forgive  me  then  ? 
Yes,  yes — you  were  always  good  and  kind,  and  so,  so  they 
will  punish  me  through  you — see,  she  glares  on  me  still  ? 
Madeleine  I  what  do  you  there  ?  Why  do  you  kneel  by 
my  coach  as  if  you  would  forgive  ?  Y^ou  can  not,  you  can 
not !     Only  tell  me  that,  that  you  have  no  child  I" 

Shuddering,  and  scarcely  able  to  support  himself,  Frank's 
glance  followed  the  wild  gaze  of  his  father,  as  if  in  the 
excitement  of  the  moment  he  almost  expected  to  see  the 
being  so  apostrophised.  He  saw  nothing  but  the  kneel- 
ing Ibrm  of  Florence,  on  whose  pale  countenance  the  dim 
light  of  morning  fell,  giving  it  an  unusual  expression 
of  languor  and  illness;  her  black  hair  was  loosened, 
and  falling  thickly  round  her,  increased  the  illusion. 
It  was  on  her  Lord  Glenvydle's  eyes  were  fixed,  dis- 
tending in  their  fevered  gaze  till  they  seemed  about  to 
burst  their  sockets.  The  convulsions  of  his  frame  ceased, 
his  whole  figure  sUflened  in  his  son's  arms,  his  features  grew 
rigid  as  stone. 

"  Madeleine,"  again  he  said  in  a  faint  and  hollow  voice, 
*'  this  is  no  dream ;  no  fever.  Frank,  Frank,  does  her 
child  live  ?  Is  it  a  son  ?  No,  no,  no,  she  is  my  wife — but 
vou,  my  boy — "  the  jaw  dropped,  then  came  a  gurgling 
Bound,  an  appalling  struggle,  and  all  was  over.  They 
watched  beside  the  dead. 

*  *  #  *  4?:  # 

From  dawn  till  past  noon  had  Francis  Howard,  now 


woman's  friendship.  347 

Lord  Glenvylle,  remained  in  his  own  apartment,  refusing 
ingress  to  all,  and  leaving  to  the  faithful  steward  of  his 
father  all  the  duties  both  to  the  living  and  the  dead.  There 
was  somethmg  pervading  his  whole  aspect  as  he  disap- 
peared from  amongst  them,  which  effectually  secured  him 
from  intrusion.  It  was  not  till  nearly  two  hours  after  noon 
that  his  own  servant  found  courage  to  knock  at  his  door, 
entreating  permission  on  the  part  of  Miss  Leslie,  and  when 
Franli  did  fling  it  impatiently  open,  the  man  started  back 
appalled  at  the  change  which  a  few  brief  hours  had 
wrought.  His  brow  was  indented,  his  cheek  haggard,  his 
lip  white  and  compressed,  and  the  voice  in  which  he  de- 
manded what  he  wanted,  totally  unlike  himself. 

The  man  was  the  bearer  of  a  note  and  packet  of  papers, 
which  Miss  Leslie  had  a  few  minutes  before  conjured  him 
to  deliver  into  Howard's  own  hand.  Frank  took  it,  but 
carelessly  threw  the  packet  aside.  The  note  was  from 
Florence,  containing  a  very  few  brief  lines,  but  they  had 
the  power  of  making  him  impatiently  motion  the  man 
away,  and  then  seize  the  packet ;  hour  after  hour  passed 
and  found  him  engrossed  with  it  still.  The  papers  were 
of  various  sizes,  and  in  different  hands  ;  yet  one  after 
another  was  perused  with  the  same  avidity,  as  if,  notwith- 
standing their  different  appearance,  they  told  but  one  con- 
tinued tale.  Frank's  very  breath  seemed  hushed  ;  but  could 
any  one  have  witnessed  the  constant  changes  of  his  counte- 
nance, 110  more  was  needed  to  betray  how  deeply  he  v/as 
moved,  or  how  nearly  that  which  he  perused  concerned 
him.  Again,  and  yet  again,  his  eye  returned  to  some 
particular  passages,  as  if  to  believe  from  a  first  perusal  was 
impossible  ;  and  it  was  not  till  twilight  had  gradually 
closed  around  him,  that  he  looked  up  from  the  deep  trance 
which  his  task  had  caused.  The  haggard  look  had  fa  fled 
from  his  features,  the  brow  was  unknit,  the  lip  relaxed  ; 
the  eyes  were  full  and  moist,  as  he  raised  them  in  the 
direction  of  the  calm^  beautiful  heavens  ;  and  his  clasped 
hands,  his  parted  lip,  spoke  inward  thanksgiving  and 
prayer. 

"  Frank  Glenvylle  !  Brother,"  murmured  a  well-known 
voice  beside  him  ;  "  we  may  love  each  other  still  I"  He 
caught  her  to  his  heart,  and  manly  as  he  was.  eschewhig 


348 

weakness  almost   as   a   crime,   his  varied   emotions  W*»r8 
calmed  in  a  Hood  of  tears. 

*-  *  #  *  ^  #  4 

*  #  #  #  *  ^ 

"  Yes,  we  will  to  Woodlands,  with  our  dear  Minie,  aa 
soon  as  may  be,"  exclaimed  Howard,  after  above  an  hour's 
quiet  converse  had  calmed  liis  excited  spirit,  and  the 
elasticity  of  the  young  Viscomit  had  returned,  the  more 
buoyant  it  seemed  from  its  late  stagnation.  "  A  few  aaya 
ago  I  felt  as  if  I  could  not,  ought  not,  to  burden  her  with 
the  sight  of  such  a  wretched  being  as  myself.  Tangible 
evil  or  suffering,  I  trust,  I  could  meet  as  a  man  ;  but  the 
bewildering  doubt,  the  heavy  apprehension  of  misery  always 
hanging  over  me,  which  my  poor  father's  words  created,  1 
could  not  bear.  I  felt  as  if  I  dared  not  meet  my  beloved 
wife  or  my  innocent  babe  again.  But  now,  now,  Florence, 
my  own  sister — how  blessed  the  word  sounds  I — again  you 
have  been  the  fountain  of  our  joy,  \Yhat  had  we  been 
without  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  not  me,  dearest  Frank  ;  our  destiny,  our  happiness 
depended  not  on  a  weak  mortal  hke  myself  for  its  fulfill- 
ment. What  had  we  been  without  that  merciful  Pro^^i- 
dence,  who  out  of  such  overwhelming  evil,  for  so  it  seemed, 
could  bring  forth  good  ?" 

"  But  Minie,  think  you,  we  should  tell  her  this  won- 
drous tale  ?  You  shrank  from  the  idea  of  imparting  it ; 
you  tell  me  as  loosening  every  tie  which  you  so  much 
loved.  Do  not  think  of  us,  but  answer  as  you  wish  yourself 
my  sister.  It  shall  be  still,  if  you  ^Adll,  and  forever  kept  a 
secrft  from  Minie." 

"  No,  Frank,  no,"  was  her  instant  answer  ;  "  let  there 
be  no  secret  between  us,  brother  and  sister  as  we  are, 
which  must  be  kept  from  one  whom  you  have  made  my 
sister  still.  No,  I  can  bear  it  now.  We  will  tell  it  all  as 
soon  as  she  has  strength  for  the  excitement.  No  tie  will 
be  loosed  now  ;  nothing  which  can  bring  one  thought  of 
pain.  Had  there  been  no  cause  for  you  to  tear  it,  then 
indeed  I  had  never  breathed  the  truth  to  mortal  ear ;  for 
remember  I  am  Florence  Leslie  still.  I  acknowledge  no 
other  parents  than  those  whose  name  I  bear.  Keep 
these  strange  and  painful   records   from   the   world,  dear 


WOMAN'S    FRIENDSHIP.  34S> 

Franlf.  None  lives  save  ourselves  whom  they  can  in  aught 
interest  or  avail,  and  therefore  no  injustice  can  be  done  by 
their  concealment.  Let  Mhiie  indeed  know  all,  but  tell  it 
to  none  else.  Oh !  wondrously  indeed  has  my  adopted 
mother's  prayer  been  answered.  Dearest  Frank,  how  may 
we  sufficiently  bless  God  I" 


CHAPTER  LV 

A    PROVIDENCE     IN    ALL. 

Had  we  listened  to  our  own  wishes,  gentlo  reader,  our 
task  had  ended  with  the  concluding  words  of  the  previous 
chapter,  even  though  the  fortunes  of  our  heroine  might  have 
appeared  unfinished — marriage  or  death  bemg  the  general 
climax  with  which  biography  of  all  Idnds,  be  it  historical  or 
imaginary,  concludes. 

It  was  our  own  earnest  wish  to  have  proved  that  a 
heroine  might  be  happily  disposed  of  without  either  one 
of  these  alternatives.  But  facts  disposed  themselves  othfr- 
wise.  That  to  a  character  like  Florence,  the  life  of  a 
single  woman  would  have  been  as  happy,  and  as  worthy 
of  respect,  admiration,  and  love,  as  the  very  warmest  of 
her  well-wishers  could  desire,  we  well  beheve  ;  for  we  arc 
not  of  the  number  of  those  who  thinlt  that  marriage,  even 
a  very  happy  one,  affords  the  only  chance  of  insuring  felicity 
and  the  proper  station  to  woman.  "VYe  believe  that  i^ 
depends  mostly  on  women  themselves  to  secure  their  OAvn 
happiness,  and  the  respect  and  love  of  others,  and  that 
they  can  do  tnis  as  single  women  as  well  as  by  becoming 
wives. 

W3  do  not  deny  that  the  task  is  difficult.  To  conquer  the 
pain  of  loneliness  and  desolation,  to  subdue  the  natural 
yeanlings  for  some  nearer  and  dearer  ties  than  merely 
those  of  blood,  wliich,  alas !  but  too  often  cool  as  years  roll 
on,  and  our  homes  are  severed  like  our  interests  ;  and  those 
en  whom  the  single  woman  would  pour  forth  her  wannest 
afTections,  give  back  but  little  in  return,  for  they  have 
Nearer  ties  ;   that  to  be  content  with  this,  to  make  objects 


350  woman's  friendship. 

of  affection  and  interest,  requires  an  energy — a  stnuigth  of 
purpose,  and,  above  all,  a  deep  clinging  sense  of  His  cherish- 
ing love,  Avhom  we  can  not  love  too  well,  which  feelings, 
perhaps,  arc  not  often  perfectly  attained  ;  and  therefore  is  it 
that  we  see  single  women  hut  too  commonly  frittering  away 
existence.  Still  hoping,  still  seeking  for  that  eventful 
change  in  life — marriage  I — when  all  change  has  long  been 
passed  ;  and  their  endeavors  to  be  youthful,  to  neglect  the 
duties  of  one  station,  in  the  hope  of  attracting  for  the 
other,  loses  them  the  esteem  which  a  higher  respect  foi 
themselves,  and  contentment  with  their  lot,  would  unavoid- 
ably command.  We  hold  all  single  women,  who  so  know 
themselves  and  their  duties,  as  to  be  revered  and  loved  by 
all  who  call  them  relative  and  friend,  in  yet  higher 
esteem  and  admiration  than  those  happier  ones,  who  have 
passed  through  hfe  hand-in-hand  with  a  beloved  partner, 
fostered  and  fostering,  blessing  and  blessed.  For  the  wife, 
in  all  hei  struggles,  all  her  pains,  all  her  faiHngs,  all 
her  virtues,  has  she  not  love  to  heal,  to  soothe,  to  sliield, 
to  encourage,  to  reward  ?  For  the  single  woman,  where 
may  she  look,  save  to  herself  and  to  her  God  !  How 
glorious  the  energy  that  snatches  her  from  listlessness 
and  trifling  I  How  sainted  the  principle  that  shielding 
her  from  self,  and  its  host  of  petty  miseries  and  ills,  bids 
her  live  for  others  in  whom  she  has  no  wife  nor  mother's 
claim. 

Yet  to  make  a  heroine  sink  into  this,  to  endow  her  with 
no  brighter  destiny,  would  call  down  on  the  \vriter  the 
charge  of  incompleteness  and  injustice.  In  vain  have  we 
urged  that  to  one  like  Florence  Leslie,  the  good  performed, 
the  misery  averted,  the  happiness  created  by  her  acts  of 
Belf-denial  and  devotedness,  would  be  sufficient  recompense. 

"  But  why  would  you  have  had  Florence  suffer  thus, 
and  meet  with  no  reward  ?"  We  think  we  hear  some 
readers  ask.  No  reward  I  Oh  I  is  there  none  in  tblb 
privileges  just  enumerated  ?  None,  in  a  life  of  virtue  and 
its  attendant  faith,  in  a  lovelier  life  above  ?  And  even  if 
there  were  none,  we  would  not  inculcate  the  false  doctrine 
that  sufTering  must  be  followed  by  temporal  recompense. 
It  i<4  a  wrong,  a  misleading  belief  to  look  to  this  world  for 
khe  reward  of  good  ;  a  mistaken  moral  to  insist  that  the 


woman's   friendship.  351 

adherence  to  the  good,  the  sacrifice  of  self,  the  endeavoi 
to  reahze  the  perfectibility  of  virtue,  must  find  its  recom- 
pense here  below,  or  the  economy  of  Divide  justice  is  im- 
perfect. Recompense  there  is,  as  incomparably  above  the 
deserts  of  even  the  most  perfect  upon  earth,  as  the  Gra- 
cious Bestower  is  above  those  on  whom  it  is  bestowed. 
But  it  comes  not  wholly  in  this  world  ;  we  must  look  up- 
ward to  receive  it ;  and  therefore  do  we  urge  that  tha 
moral  of  that  tale  is  false,  which  would  crown  a  hfe  of 
trial  with  the  dazzling  lustre  of  earthly  joy.  Not  that  our 
mortal  course  is  desolate.  If  our  readers  have  felt  with 
Florence,  they  have  traced  love  gleaming  up  through 
all,  and  must  acknowledge  with  her,  that  she  had  her 
reward  even  in  this  world.  The  "  silver  lining"  was  be- 
neath the  thunder-cloud,  and  the  darkest  misery  brought 
forth  joy. 

Yet  loving  as  she  did,  how  was  it  possible  that  she  could 
ever  be  happy  or  associate  with  the  object  of  that  love,  dis- 
covering him  to  be  her  brother  ?  The  most  probable  thing 
was,  that  she  should  go  mad. 

Not  so,  captious  critic  I  We  are  not  of  the  tornado 
school,  and  can  quite  believe,  though  a  woman  can  never 
love  twice,  as  she  has  loved  once,  there  is  no  occasion  for 
death  or  madness  to  be  her  cure.  Nay,  we  are  sufficiently 
unromantic  to  believe,  that  passion  may  actually  be  con- 
quered, and  that  by  securing  the  happiness  of  those  she 
loved,  Florence  went  the  surest  way  to  work,  and  abso- 
lutely did  conquer  it,  although  at  the  cost  of  her  own 
health  and  happiness,  before  the  truth  was  known.  We 
further  allege,  that  as  nearly  two  years  elapsed  between 
the  discovery  of  the  misery  she  had  so  narrowly  escaped 
and  her  seeing  Frank  again,  it  was  quite  possible  for  her, 
when  they  did  meet,  to  regard  him  only  as  the  brother, 
which,  by  his  marriage  with  Minie,  she  had  before  tutored 
her  mind  and  heart  to  consider  him.  The  horror  which 
had  seized  her  when  the  truth  Avas  first  revealed,  had,  in- 
deed been  such  as  to  terrify  Lady  St.  Maur  for  her  re- 
turning health,  but  her  strong  mind  had  conquered;  and 
some  time  before  they  left  Italy,  every  painful  feeling  had 
merged  into  quietness  and  confidence,  gratitude  and  joy. 
She  no  longer  shuimed  his  image  or  his  memory.     Her  very 


352  WOMAN*S    FRIENDSHIP. 

horror  of  what  might  have  been,  and  her  constant  grati 
tude  that  the  deep  misery  had  been  turned  aside,  ever  pre.« 
vented  the  rccufrenco  of  any  thought  which  could  disturb 
her  peace. 

But  did  Frank  himself  ever  know  at  what  cost  to  Flo- 
rence he  had  been  saved  from  a  doom,  at  the  very  thought 
of  which  he  shuddered  ?  Not  from  the  lips  of  Florence. 
Neither  he  nor  Minie,  while  they  blessed  her  as — humanly 
speaking — not  alone  the  creator,  but  the  preserver  of  their 
joy,  ever  knew  how  painfully  the  first  had  been  purchased. 
If  a  thought  of  the  truth  did  ever  flash  across  the  mind  of 
Frank,  as  wdien  he  recollected  former  suspicions  of  unhap- 
piness,  it  might  naturally  have  done,  it  was  suppressed  so 
quickly  that  it  could  never  take  defined  form,  much  less 
expressed  word ;  and  he  beheved  with  his  wife,  that 
Florence's  injured  health  and  drooping  spirits  originated 
in  her  fatal  secret  alone.  Minie's  varied  emotions  at  the 
tale  she  heard,  we  leave  to  the  imaginations  of  our  readers. 
Suffice  it  that  Florence  never  had  reason  to  regret  that  it 
had  been  imparted.  Sisters,  bound  by  no  common  affec- 
tion, they  had  been  from  infancy,  and  such  even  through 
long  years  of  marriage  and  maternity,  they  changelessly  re- 
mained. 

It  is  the  fashion  we  believe,  in  the  concluding  chapter* 
of  a  tale,  as  in  the  last  scene  of  a  drama,  to  bring  all  the 
dramatis  'personam  on  the  boards  together.  As,  however, 
our  characters  are  almost  all  disposed  of,  either  in  narrative 
or  conversation,  we  must  eschew  the  common  mode,  and 
briefly  as  may  be  dismiss  those  that  remain. 

To  the  world,  the  tale  we  have  related,  was  never  known, 
never  even  rumored.  That  the  young  Viscount  insisted 
on  settling  half  of  his  father's  long-hoarded  wealth  on  Miss 
Leslie,  was,  from  his  character,  no  very  great  matter  of 
surprise.  The  sacrifice  she  had  made  for  him,  was  cause 
sufficient,  and  so  after  the  subject  had  been  gossiped, 
exaggerated,  and  treated  in  every  variety  of  light,  it  was 
dismissed  to  make  room  for  those  other  matters  of  moment 
to  the  great,  scandal-loving,  busybody  world. 

To  one  other  person  alone,  in  addition  to  those  whom  wo 
have  named,  was  the  eventful  tenor  of  Miss  Leslie's  fife 
revealed. 


womaf's    friendship.  353 

It  was  a  lovely  summer  evening,  rather  more  than  two 
years  after  Lord  Glenvylle's  death,  that  two  persons  were 
sitting  in  one  of  the  pretty  little  parlors  of  Amersley, 
opening  on  a  retired  part  of  the  park.  They  had,  it 
appeared  by  the  lady's  attire,  been  walking,  but  as  their 
conversation  deepened  in  interest,  the  repose  and  solitude 
of  that  little  boudoir  had  been  unconsciously  sought,  as 
less  liable  to  interruption  than  either  garden  or  park.  The 
lady  had  thrown  aside  her  bonnet,  and  as  she  sat,  her  face 
upturned  to  the  gentleman,  he  standing  beside  her,  though 
the  features  disclosed  no  positive  beauty,  they  were  such 
as  arrest  irresistibly,  particularly  when  beaming  as  they 
vvere  at  that  moment.  Though  the  period  of  girlhood  had 
merged  into  the  epoch  of  woman's  loveliest  maturity,  when 
one  degree  nearer  thirty  than  twenty,  she  unites  all  the 
truth  and  freslmess  of  early  youth,  with  those  calmer, 
more  finished  graces  which  have  come  not  to  pass  away, 
but  to  deepen  and  endure.  One  glance  on  that  open 
brow,  that  full  dark  eye,  that  finely-chiselled  mouth,  Avill 
suffice  for  her  recognition  by  all  those  whose  interest  in 
Florence  Leslie  has  sketched  her  image  in  their  minds. 

To  the  Florence  of  our  first  chapter,  she  bore  indeed 
little  outward  resemblance,  save  such  as  the  opening  flower 
does  to  the  early  rose-bud.  But  even  as  the  full-blowr 
rose  reveals  the  luscious  scent  and  glowing  beauty  which 
the  bud  contained,  although  in  part  concealed  ;  so  did  her 
character,  as  it  now  shone  forth,  confirm  and  perfect  the 
promise  of  its  bud.  The  timid,  shrinkmg  girl,  was  now 
the  dignified  though  still  retiring  woman.  The  high  and 
truthful  sentiments  which  had  formerly  been  spoken 
trembhngly,  as  scarcely  daring  to  find  expression,  lest 
scorners  should  mock,  or  the  more  experienced  should 
pity,  were  now  avowed  calmJy,  unostentatiously,  as  tney 
had  been  acted  upon  in  the  many  trials  of  her  Hfe.  The 
heart  which  had  throbbed  and  quivered  at  the  faintest 
word  of  kindness,  and  which  a  silken  thread  had  led,  if 
held  by  a  loving  hand,  now  rested  on  itself  meekly  and 
truthfully,  contented  with  the  love  it  gave,  and  the  love  if 
received.  Living  for  others,  mdeod  still ;  but  feeling  to 
the  full  that  such  existence  was  only  living  for  her  purei 
Belf. 


354  woman's   friendship. 

Her  aompanioii  appeared  some  two  or  three  years  hel 
Benior,  tall  and  finely  formed.  A  high  polish  and  elegance 
of  tone  and  manner  marked  at  once  the  English  gentleman^ 
and  there  was,  too,  an  honest  frankness  in  all  he  said, 
which  rendered  it  impossible  to  mistake  his  profession ; 
but  both  their  characters — as  he  stood  leaning  over  the 
arm  ^of  the  couch  where  Florence  sat — had  so  evidently 
merged  into  the  anxious  lover,  that  they  may  be  passed 
over  with  very  little  notice.  Florence  had  been  speaking 
long  and  earnestly,  evidently  narrating  circumstances  or 
feelings,  to  which  Sir  Ronald  Elliott  listened,  scarcely 
breathing  lest  he  should  lose  a  word,  though  much  of  wliich 
she  told  him  he  already  knew. 

"  You  know  all  now,"  she  said  in  conclusion,  "  more 
than  any  being  on  eai-th  knows  except  Lord  and  Lady  St 
Maur,  more  than  I  ever  believed  could  pass  my  lips  agam 
Yet  acting  nobly,  generously,  as  you  have  done  by  me,  it 
is  your  due.  I  neither  could  nor  would  have  become  your 
wife,  with  any  one  circumstance  untold.  Of  course,  had 
not  all  love  been  previously  subdued,  the  very  fact  of 
discovering  who  it  was  with  whom  m  perfect  ignorance 
and  umocence  my  affections  had  become  twined,  must  have 
banished  the  passion  forever,  even  if  to  do  so  had  caused 
my  death,  which,  perhaps,  had  it  not  been  conquered, 
must  inevitably  have  ensued.  But  though  five  years  have 
elapsed  smce  then,  and  all  love  has  passed  away  as  entirely 
as  if  it  had  never  been,  save  that  I  now  shrink  from  its 
thought  with  such  shuddering  that  I  dare  not,  if  I  could, 
feel  such  emotion  again  ;  how  may  I  hope  or  believe  that  a 
heart  whi;3h  has  lost  the  sunny  freshness  of  youth's  first 
feelings,  will  bestow  on  you  the  happiness,  which  you  tell 
me  can  exist  but  with  its  possession  ?  Do  not  hesitate  to 
speak  those  sentiments  which  my  mivarnished  narration 
may  have  excited.  You  cannot  have  known  the  facts  be- 
fore, and  thei'efore  have  I  so  hesitatea  to  accept  the  attentions 
you  have  lavished  on  me  during  the  last  few  months.  I 
longed  for  you  to  kno^v  the  truth,  believing  that  if  known 
you  must  cease  to  value  a  heart  which  can  give  so  poor  a 
return  for  all  the  devotedness  of  yours." 

"  So  poor  a  return  !"  he  answered  passionately.  "  Flo- 
rence, call  you  truth,  confidence,  esteem,  afiection,  however 


WOMAN    S    FRIENDSHIP.  355 

calm  and  unimpassioned  from  a  heart  like  yours,  lut  poor 
return  ?  Oh  I  dearer,  more  precious  to  me  thus  revealed 
than  the  first  and  freshest  love  of  the  loveliest  on  earth. 
You  know  not  how  for  the  last  five  years,  aye,  from  the 
first  evening  I  beheld  you  sitting  in  your  deep  sorrow  in 
this  very  room  at  Ida's  feet,  I  have  borne  your  image  with 
me,  wherever  you  have  been — though  how  might  I  annoy 
you  with  attentions,  with  words  of  love,  when  your  thoughts 
were  ail  fixed  on  other  things.  'No,  Florence,  no.  Lord 
St.  Maur  penetrated  my  secret,  and  to  save  me  from  the 
danger  of  unrequited  love,  he  told  me  almost  all  you  have 
revealed,  save  the  name  of  him  you  loved  ;  and  yet  I  loved, 
aye,  hopeless  as  it  seemed." 

"  All !  you  knew  all  !  even  the  doubt  upon  my  birth ! 
and  yet  you  would  have  made  me  yours  !" 

"  Yes,  dearest !  and  those  things  they  told  me  to  di- 
minish love  increased  it  tenfold.  "What  was  to  me  the 
doubt  upon  your  birth  ?  Yourself  alone  I  loved,  aye, 
worshiped ;  jfor  the  deep  sanctity  your  uncomplaining 
sorrow  flung  around  you,  permitted  little  of  mere  earthly 
passion  to  mingle  with  my  love.  "What  to  me  that  you 
had  resigned  your  heritage  for  the  happiness  of  others, 
save  that  the  very  deed  first  woke  me  to  the  consciousness 
how  unchangeably  I  loved  !  In  the  brief  visit  I  paid  to 
England,  eighteen  months  ago,  I  looked  on  you  again, 
and  hope  grew  stronger,  yet  still  I  feared  to  commit  my 
fate  to  words.  I  dared  not  ask  you  to  be  mine,  lest  even 
hope  should  be  forever  banished  by  your  refusal.  Agaia 
we  met,  I  know  not  what  bolder  feehng  awoke  within  mt. 
Yoa  did  not  enthely  rc;ect  attention ;  you  did  not  refuse 
my  companionship  and  sympathy.  Y^ou  spoke  to  me  more 
than  once  as  to  one  whose  character  was  not  wholly 
beneath  your  confidence  and  regard.  Florence,  my  be- 
loved, it  was  from  these  little  tilings  I  gathered  hope, 
for  I  knew  I  felt  such  conduct  could  not  proceed  from  one 
who  is  truth  itself,  did  she  intend  me  to  speak  m  vain. 
Forgive  me  that  I  did  not  interrupt  you  when  you  spoke, 
by  avoAvdng  I  knew  all  before.  Your  confidence,  your 
truth,  were  too  precious  to  be  so  checked.  They  told  me 
that  the  esteem,  the  afiection  I  pined  for  were  my  own, 
or  you  had  not  thus  spoken ;  that  as  a  friend,  a  husband, 


356  w  Oman's  FRiENDSiiir. 

dearest  Flor3nce,  that  confidence,  that  affection  would  blesa 
me  still.  One  thing  only  you  told  me  that  I  did  not  know 
before  ;  till  this  very  day,  nay  this  very  hour,  I  knew  not 
that  the  mystery  of  your  birth  had  been  dispersed,  your  real 
parentage  made  knoAvn.  I  can  guess  wherefore  St.  Maur 
withheld  the  truth,  and  I  owe  him  the  sincerest  gratitude 
for  so  dijing.  I  could  almost  wish  it  had  not  been  so,  that 
I  might  prove  how  little  such  thoughts  could  weigh  with 
me." 

"  I  do  not  heed  such  proof,  dear  E-onald,  vir  rather  you 
ha-^e  proved  it,"  replied  Florence,  with  one  of  those  bright 
glistening  smiles  that  sometimes  returned  to  her  lip  like 
the  reflection  of  other  days,  and  she  made  no  resistance 
to  the  change  in  Elliott's  position  from  standing  to  sitting 
by  her  side,  with  one  arm  most  daringly  tlirown  round  her 
waist. 

"  And  you  will  be  mine,  mine  !  in  very  truth  my  owti," 
wliispered  the  enraptured  lover,  looking  upon  the  sweet 
face  till  it  blushed  benGath  liis  gaze.  "  Mine,  spite  of  all 
Edmund's  long  sermons  as  to  the  pure  romance  of  v/hat  I 
felt — can  it  mdeed  be  ?  I  have  di-eamed  of  such  bhss  so 
long,  it  feels  hlie  a  dream  still.  Speak  to  me  but  once, 
love ;  say  but  one  httle  word,  that  it  is  no  illusion :  you 
will  be  mine." 

"  Yes,  dearest  Ronald  !"  she  rephed,  simply  and  frankly, 
and  her  clear,  trutliful  eyes  shruiik  not  beneath  his.  "  Six 
months  ago  I  thought  my  destiny  fixed,  and  thanked  God 
for  its  calm  and  quiet  joys ;  but  with  you,  sliielded  by  a 
love  like  yours,  I  feel,  and  have  felt,  perhaps,  for  the  last 
m.onth,  that  had  I  a  heart  worthy  of  the  love  you  gave,  I 
might  be  happier  still.  But  there  is  one  person  to  be  con- 
sulted," she  added,  with  a  gay  smile,  perceivmg,  though 
Elliott  was  too  much  engrossed  to  do  so,  Lord  and 
Ladj  St.  Maur  comuig  up  the  path  to  the  glass  door. 
"  Not  Muiie,  because  she  will  be  too  happy  to  tliuik  I  have 
a  chance  of  being  happy  as  herself;  nor  Frank,  for  the 
same  reason ;  and  I  believe,  could  he  choose  a  brother,  he 
vrould  have  chosen  you  ;  not  Lord  St.  Maur,  but  his  and 
our  Ida,  who  has  vowed  vengeance  on  any  man  who 
would  rob  her  of  one  whom  she  flattermgly  terms  so 
useful   a   friend  as  myself      Go  and   use   your   eloquence 


woman's  friendship.  357 

with  her,  dear  Ronald,  for  wed  witliout  her  consent  1 
can  not." 

*'  1  have  no  fear,"  was  his  joyous  reply,  springing  from 
the  side  of  Florence  to  that  of  the  Countess,  ahnost  with 
a  bound,  and  in  a  very  few  minutes  they  were  all  within 
the  room ;  the  Earl,  grasping  the  Captain's  hand  with  a 
most  sympathizmg  pressure,  and  Lady  St.  Maur  holding 
Florence  in  a  warm  embrace,  whispering  such  affectionate 
congratulation  that  it  almost  brought  forth  tears. 

"Yes,  I  will  give  her  to  you,  Ronald,"  she  said,  "for 
your  love  does  deserve  her  ;  and  as  your  wife,  I  shall  not 
only  keep  a  friend,  but  gam  a  relative.  If  any  one  had 
prophesied  this  years  ago,  that  my  lowly  flower  of  St. 
John's  was  to  become  cousin  and  dearest  friend  to  that 
same  Lady  Ida  VilHers,  from  whom  the  simple  girl  then 
almost  shrank  in  awe  because  she  was  an  Earl's  daughter, 
and  who  afterwards  suffered  all  kinds  of  sorrow  rather 
than  claim  a  friend  in  one  she  so  foolishly  loved,  because 
rank  and  fortune  came  between  us — -if  any  one  had  proph- 
esied this,  I  say,  wiio  would  have  believed  it  ?" 

"  And  if  any  one  were  to  read  my  tale,  dearest  Ida, 
would  they  not  scoff  and  say,  that  to  friendship  lilie  yom's 
the  world  affords  no  parallel ;  that  it  is  pretty  to  read  of 
but  is  never  found  ?  That  one  of  your  rank  must  havt 
neglected,  if  she  did  not  forget,  one  lowly  as  myself;  that 
in  the  world,  fasliion  not  feehng  must  guide,  and  therefore 
none  of  your  ranli  and  station  coidd  be  as  you  have  been. 
Oh !  you  know  not  how  your  friendsliip  aided  m  making- 
me  as  I  am.  The  world  sees  but  the  surface  of  life ;  it 
knows  not  what  httle  things  may  influence  and  guide,  and 
how  much  female  friendsliip,  m  general  so  scorned  and 
Bcofled  at,  may  be  the  invisible  means  of  strengtheimig 
in  virtue,  comforting  m  sorrow  and,  without  once  inter- 
fering with  any  nearer  or  dearer  tic,  may  heighten  in- 
expressibly the  happmess  and  weU-domg  of  each." 


THE   END, 


2>.  Appleton  S  CoJ's  Publications. 


WORKS    OF   FICTION. 


Grace  Agrailar's  Works. 

THE  MOTHER'S  RECOMPENSE.     12mo.    Cloth. 

HOME  INFLUENCE.     12mo.     Cloth. 

WOMEN  OF  ISRAEL.     12mo.    Cloth, 

VALE  OF  CEDARS.     12mo.     Cloth, 

WOMAN'S  FRIENDSHIP.     12ino.     Cloth. 

THE  DAYS  OF  BRUCE.     12mo.     2  vols.     Cloth. 

HOME  SCENES  AND  HEART  STUDIES.     12mo.  Cloth. 

"Grace  Aguilar's  works  possess  attractions  which  will  always 
p\ace  them  among  the  standard  writings  which  no  hbrary  can  b» 
mthout.  'Mother's Recompense'  and  'Woman's Friendship'  shoultf 
be  read  by  both  young  and  old." 


A  Novel  by  a  New  Author. 

KOUND  THE  BLOCK.     An  American  Novel. 

"Unlike  most  novels  that  now  appear,  it  has  no  'mission,  th« 
tuthor  being  neither  a  politician  nor  a  reformer,  but  a  story-teller, 
according  to  the  old  pattern :  and  a  capital  story  he  has  produced, 
written  in  the  happiest  style.'* 

Alice  B.  Haven's  Novels. 

THE  COOPERS ;  or,  GETTD^G  UNDER  WAT. 
LOSS  AND  GAIN;  or,  MARGARET'S  HOME. 

The  lamented  Cousin  Ahce,  better  known  as  the  author  of  numer 
ous  juvenile  works  of  a  popular  character,  only  wrote  two  works  of 
fiction,  which  evidence  that  she  could  have  met  with  equal  success  in 
that  walk  of  literature.  They  both  bear  the  impress  of  a  miud  whoM 
ourity  of  heart  was  proverbial. 


JD,  Appleton  <&  Co.^s  Publications, 


Julia  Eavanash's  Works. 

ADELE :  a  Tale.     1  thick  vol.     12mo.     Cloth. 

WOMEN  OF  CEEISTIANITY,   EXEiTPLARY  FOR  PIETY  AliD 

Charity.     12mo.     Cloth. 
NATHALIE:  a  Tale.     12mo.     Cloth, 
MADELEINE.     12mo.     Goth, 
DAISY  BURNS.     12mo.    Cloth, 
GRACE  LEE.    Cloth, 
RACHEL  GRAY.     12mo.     Cloth. 
QUEEN  MAB.    (A  New  Work.)    Qoth. 
SEVEN  YEARS,  and  OTHER  TALES.     Cloth. 

"There  is  a  quiet  power  in  the  writings  of  this  gifted  author, 
which  is  as  far  removed  from  the  sensati&naJ  school  as  any  of  th« 
modern  novels  can  be." 


Miss  Macintosli's  Works. 

WOMEN  IN  AMERICA.     12mo.     Cloth. 
TWO  LIVES;  or,  TO  SEEM  AND  TO  BE.     12mo.     Cloth. 
AUNT  KITTY'S  TAIJES.     12mo.     Cloth. 
CHARMS  AND  COUNTER  CHARMS.     Qoth, 
EVENINGS  AT  DONALDSON  MANOR.     12rao.    Qoth. 
THE  LOFTY  AND  LOWLY.     2  vols.     12mo.     Goth. 
META  GRAY;  or,  WHAT  MAKES  HOME  HAPPY.     Cloth. 
TWO  PICTURES ;  or,  HOW  T\TE  SEE  OURSELVES  AND  HOW 
the  Worid  Sees  Us.     1  vol.     12mo.    Cloth. 

**Miss  Macintosh  is  one  of  the  best  of  the  female  writers  of  the  day. 
Her  stories  are  always  full  of  lessons  of  truth,  and  purity,  and  good- 
ness,  of  that  serene  and  gentle  wisdom  which  comes  from  no  source 
BO  fitly  as  from  a  refined  and  Christian  woman." 

Emile  Souvestre's  Works. 

THE  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.     12mo. 
LEAVES  FROM  A  FAMILY  JOURNAL.     12mo. 

"Whoever  has  missed  reading  the  'Attic  Philosopher  in  Paris, 
has  failed  to  lead  one  of  the  most  charming  pieces  of  writing  that  has 
•ver  appeared.  The  reader  cannot  fail  to  rise  from  the  perusal  of  i. 
with  a  contented  mind  and  a  happy  heart.  It  should  be  read  one* 
*  year." 


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